


City Lights

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Begging, Clothed Male Naked Male, Come Swallowing, Deepthroating, Drunk Sex, Face Slapping, Facials, Glasses, Handcuffs, Hotel Sex, Incest Play, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mirror Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Punching, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Spitroasting, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Threesome - M/M/M, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Verbal Humiliation, kicking, toilet sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's going on. My orders said that I need to be ready to go at eight, sober and smartly-dressed, that we'll be out of town all weekend, and that I don't need to bring anything with me. That's it. No idea what I'll be doing, no idea where we're going, no idea what'll be waiting for me when I get there. So here I am, clueless and full of nerves, just the way the boss likes me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long Weekend

The car horn sounds at a quarter to eight, and that puts me right on edge. Joe's always early, but he's never _this_ early. Something's going on. My orders said that I need to be ready to go at eight, sober and smartly-dressed, that we'll be out of town all weekend, and that I don't need to bring anything with me. That's it. No idea what I'll be doing, no idea where we're going, no idea what'll be waiting for me when I get there. So here I am, clueless and full of nerves, just the way the boss likes me.

"Just you and me tonight?" I ask, as I get into the passenger seat.

"No," Joe says. "Lucky for you, it's not."

"The boss already there, is he?"

"That's right." He nods, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Better step on it, then," I say, with a smirk. "Wouldn't want the old man to get lonely out there on his own."

Probably not a good idea to needle Joe while he's driving, but when have I ever gone for good ideas? There's a few moments of silence, the kind that hangs in the air nice and thick like a brewing storm, the kind that usually ends up with me getting a good beating, and then that grim expression cracks into a smile.

"Lonely?" Joe says, shaking his head. "He'll be making the most of the peace and quiet, before you and–" He stops there, and that's the last word I get out of him for the rest of the journey.

I don't really mind the silence, though. It gives me time to think, time to get myself worked up anticipating what comes next. My thoughts wander through the possibilities like I'm browsing through a department store. Maybe the boss is going to lend me out to someone, maybe we're heading to some associate's house. Maybe he's going to make me work a group again. Maybe it's going to be one of those fancy parties that ends with me and half a dozen other boys putting on a floorshow. Or one of those expensive dinners where I get to be dessert. Or maybe it's not one of those nights at all, maybe this is going to be a rough job, not a soft one. Maybe he's bringing me along as backup to his backup, and I'll get to stand there looking menacing while Joe does the actual business. Maybe I'll even get to lend a hand myself. All of those options get my blood pumping, and in a way I'm glad the boss didn't bother to tell me what the deal is tonight, because speculating about it is entertaining enough to make the long journey feel like no time at all.

We drive down what seems like a million little country roads, and it's getting dark by the time we turn off onto a long, tree-lined drive. Not too dark for me to get a good look at the house, though, and I get the chills just looking at it, because it's got the boss's style written all over it. It's big and new-looking, with ivy up the front of it, and a great big door that looks like you'd need a dozen guys to kick it down. It looks like the kind of place you'd feel safe, absolutely safe, as long as you stayed on the right side of the owner. Back behind the house, I can see the edge of a lake, dark and inky and rippling in the breeze, and to me that looks like a warning. I'll bet that water's swallowed up more than a few problems in its time.

Once we're inside, that case of the chills I had earlier starts up again. I don't think I've ever seen a house that looked more cold and stark. No pictures on the walls, no ornaments, nothing to clutter any of those hard, clean surfaces. It's like someone made a building out of all the things that frighten me about the boss, all the things that really send a thrill through me, all the things that keep me up at night. As soon as that big mahogany door shuts behind me, I feel like I might as well already have his hand around my throat, and when Joe steers me into the study where the boss is waiting, that grip only gets tighter. The boss is sitting in one of those big leather armchairs, with a drink in one hand and a book on his lap. It's the kind of sight that makes me want to drop to my knees right here and now, but it's also the kind that fires up the urge to make trouble.

"What's this, then?" I say, slinging my jacket across one of the empty chairs. "A retirement villa or something?"

He doesn't respond. He just looks up at Joe, and Joe looks down at his watch, and gives the boss a look that I can't quite read.

"Should be about half an hour, now." Joe says, checking his watch again as he talks, as if he didn't quite believe it the first time.

"I can see the clock, Joe." The boss smiles slightly. "Sit down."

"Yeah, sit down, Joe," I laugh. I can't help it. It's all the tension, it makes me nervous, and nerves make me reckless, and before I know it I'm giving Joe the kind of grin that should earn me a smack in the face. Only he doesn't smack me. He doesn't even look at me. He just does as the boss told him, sits down in the chair opposite, and leans back like he's settling in for a long wait. Well, maybe neither of them feels like rising to the bait right now, but I can't resist keeping on pushing, just to make sure.

"So, what am I here for tonight, boss?" I go over and perch on the arm of his chair, peering down at the book in his lap. "Are you short a member for your book club or something?"

He grabs my throat, fast and tight, and his other hand comes down across my cheek hard enough that I'll be feeling it tomorrow. "Sit down," he says, shoving me back toward the sofa. "And _be quiet_."

That wasn't the usual slap. Most times, a smack in the face is just an invitation to keep pushing and pushing until I've given him a reason to really lay into me. But that was no invitation. That was an order, a serious order, and I follow it without another word. I just sit down on the sofa and try to rub my cheek without being too obvious about it, and I keep my mouth shut even as my brain's working overtime trying to figure out what's going on. Why bring me over just to sit here and do nothing? We must be waiting for something. Or some _one_. And it can't be the usual kind of guest of honour, either. This must be someone special. I want to ask the boss, I want to plead for an answer, but I reckon even asking would make the old man angry, and not the kind of angry I want, not by a long shot.

So I wait. I wait and wait, watching the big clock on the mantel as the minutes creep by. The ticking of it seems to get louder and louder as each minute passes, and after fifteen of them I'm about ready to pick up that clock and sling it through the window, so I shove my hands in my pockets and try to think about something else. Anything apart from figuring out what we're waiting for. I think about songs I've heard on the radio. Films I want to go and see. Boys I've spotted working in the boss's clubs that I haven't tried chatting up yet. But none of it sticks. I'm going to be wound up until I find out what's going on.

Then finally, at twenty past, the doorbell rings. I get to my feet automatically, making a move for the door, but Joe's having none of that. He shoves me back down onto the sofa and goes off into the hallway to do the job himself. So I guess whatever I'm here for tonight, playing doorman isn't included.

"There you are." Joe's voice filters in from the hallway, but there's none of the usual edge to it. "Come on, come inside," he says, and he sounds almost friendly. That's pretty unnerving in itself.

"Thanks, Uncle Joe," a voice says, rich and quiet, and then the owner of it comes strolling into the lounge like he lives here, with Joe right behind him. The new guy stops when he sees me, pauses for a moment, and I can feel him sizing me up about as keenly as I'm returning the favour. He's blond, sharp-faced, with a little height on me but not much muscle. Tanned like he's stepped out of one of those package tour posters. Probably only a couple of years older than me, but the way he carries himself, it's like he knows he's worth his own weight in gold but he can't be bothered making a song and dance about it. He's got confidence, real confidence, comfortable and relaxed in a way I'll never be. I haven't even spoken to him yet, but I already hate his guts.

"Let me look at you, Christopher," the boss says, with his hands on the new guy's shoulders and about the closest thing to warmth I've ever seen in his eyes. I sit quietly, just watching, trying not to let the strangeness of all of this get to me. Trying, and failing miserably.

"Seems like more than a couple of years, doesn't it?" Joe says, looking the new guy up and down like he can't get enough of the sight of him.

"It seemed like a lot more than that to me." The new guy says, and I can hear it in his voice. It's there, plain as day. You'd have to be a fool not to hear how glad this guy is to be back, how much he missed them. He sounds like I'd sound, if I'd been away for two years. I must really be staring, because now the new guy finally notices me, and he turns around to me with a big, broad smile and an outstretched hand.

"Chris Miller," he says, brisk and light like we're having a business lunch together. "You must be the new boy."

"Yeah, I guess I must be." I stand up and shake his hand, letting my grip get a bit firmer than strictly necessary, but he doesn't flinch. "Does that make you the old one?"

He smiles at me. And it's not a nasty smirk, either, it's a genuine smile, like he finds my act endearing. "You're just as I expected. I've heard a lot about you, you know."

"Oh yeah?" I say, but the smile I give him isn't half as pleasant as his. "That's funny, because I haven't heard a thing about you."

"Alright, that's enough," Joe says, and he puts his hand on my shoulder nice and firm. "Go and get the bags. Last room on the left."

"My old room," Miller says, soft and sentimental enough that I feel like throwing his suitcases into the lake. But that hand on my shoulder's heavy enough to make me think twice about taking the conversation any further, so I do as I'm told, and as I'm taking this Miller guy's luggage upstairs, it suddenly strikes me: _Uncle_ Joe? I've heard him called plenty of things, but that's a new one on me. They can't be related. They can't be. I've never heard Joe or the boss talk about family. I thought they were like me. No family, no ties, nothing. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I've been wrong the whole time. I don't know. But I'm not going to figure anything out standing around up here, so I dump the bags next to the bed and head back downstairs, bracing myself for another round with the golden boy.

"You must be tired," the boss is saying to Miller, as I come back into the room.

"Oh no, not at all, Uncle Jack." He laughs, sitting down on the sofa like this is his own front room. "I'm good for a few more hours at least."

Again with the _Uncle_. The affection drips off that word like syrup. Like velvet. Like nails down a blackboard. I don't know who this guy is to be acting so cosy with the both of them, but at least it proves I was right. Miller's about as much of a blood relation as I am. That's some consolation, anyway. At least they really are like me, after all.

"Fetch some drinks," the boss orders, as soon as he spots me.

I hop to it right away. No amount of backchat or needling is going to get me what I want right now, so for the moment I decide I'm just going to fetch and carry like a good boy, and then when the time's right, I'm going to corner this Miller and get some answers out of him. I think about that as I hand him his drink, and when he gives me that bright smile again, I give him an almost genuine one in return. Only mine's bright with the anticipation of how it's going to feel when I eventually get one over on him.

Once everyone's got a drink, I sit down with one of my own, and try my best to hold my tongue. I listen to the three of them talking, keeping my mouth shut and my ears open, but most of the conversation sails clear over my head. They talk about deals that went down before my time, before Miller went away. They talk about the jobs Miller took care of while he was away, the people he worked with, the contacts he made out there. They talk about the last time the three of them were here together, before Miller left on his trip. From all of this, I get two messages loud and clear. Firstly, this Miller is basically a jumped-up desk jockey, a management type who probably never got his hands dirty the whole time he was abroad, and secondly, he's been in with the boss and Joe for what sounds like _years_. Makes me wonder how old he was when they picked him up. Makes me wonder where they picked him up from, and how all this 'Uncle' business started. Makes me wonder about a lot of things.

Miller's just getting started on what must be the fifth nostalgic anecdote I've had to listen to tonight, when the phone rings. He shuts up right away, automatically, and just as automatically I get up to answer it.

"Joe'll get it." the boss says, giving him the nod, and off Joe goes to answer it. So I guess the only calls that come through to this place are way above my level. Still, I can't help wondering what could be so important that the call couldn't wait until we were back in town on Monday. Who'd dare interrupt the boss on a weekend away like this? I don't get to find out, because when Joe puts the receiver on the table and comes across to the boss, he leans in close and talks quietly enough that I've got no hope of catching a word. But whatever it is, it must be pretty urgent, because the boss doesn't even look at Miller as he goes through into the study to take the call, like all of a sudden the golden boy isn't so interesting after all. I watch quietly as Joe follows the boss into the study, and I wait until he's closed the door behind them, until it's just me and Miller, side by side on the sofa, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough that I could reach out and smack the smile off his face.

"So," I say, quiet enough that they won't hear me next door. "What's your deal, then?"

"My deal?" Miller says, like the phrase amuses him.

"If you're the boss's nephew then I'm the Queen of Sheba." I say, turning around in my seat so I'm facing him. "So spill it."

"You're right, I'm not his nephew." Miller laughs quietly, like I'm an idiot for even considering the idea. "But he was close to my father, like a brother, so the name stuck."

"Was?"

"They're dead," he says, not flinching at all. "My parents, I mean."

I don't say anything. I don't know how to respond to something like that, so I just keep my mouth shut and wait for him to carry on.

"It happened when I was in the last year of school." Miller pauses and looks away, just long enough for me to start wondering if he's finished, and then he turns back to me with another one of those bright, easy smiles. "Uncle Jack made sure I was looked after, and then when I was old enough…" He pauses again, only this time the look in his eyes is the kind I have no trouble understanding, no trouble at all. "When I was old enough, he found me a suitable position."

"Oh, I'll bet he did," I laugh, and I'm just about to ask Miller how old is 'old enough' when the door opens. The boss doesn't look happy, and Joe follows him back into the lounge looking like he's ready to throttle somebody. Usually that'd be me, but before I can say a word, Miller short-circuits the whole idea.

"I think the long journey's finally catching up with me," he says, standing up and stretching like a big blond cat. "Is it okay if I go straight to bed, Uncle Jack?"

"Alright." The boss nods. "Get some rest."

Miller says goodnight and breezes out of the lounge, and as soon as he's gone, the boss gives me the kind of look that shuts me down before I even get started. "You too," he orders, pointing at the door. "Go to bed."

I don't answer back, but I can't help rolling my eyes, and as soon as I do, Joe's on me like a shot. He doesn't say a word, just grabs me by the back of the neck and shoves me out of the door hard enough that I end up staggering into the opposite wall, and by the time I push myself upright and turn around, he's already closed the lounge door behind me. So I guess if it's Miller's bedtime, it's mine too.

 

* * *

 

I've never had trouble sleeping in strange beds before. I've slept in dozens of them over the last couple of years, hotel beds and guest beds and the odd sofa in the back of a club, and every time I was out like a light the minute I put my head down, even when I was bruised and raw enough to make every position uncomfortable. But not tonight. Tonight I get to listen to the clock chiming eleven, then twelve, then one, and by half-past one I can't take it any more. I tell myself I'm just going down to the kitchen to get a drink, that maybe I'll look into the lounge and see if Joe's still up, see if maybe I can talk him into a game of cards or something to pass the time. But it's not the lounge I look into on my way down, and it's not Joe I get an eyeful of. The door of the study is only slightly open, just a few inches, but it's enough to let light spill out onto the hallway carpet. Enough to let me catch a glimpse of the boss and Miller. Enough to keep me standing there watching even when I know I should keep right on walking.

The boss is standing by the fireplace, with the light of the flames gleaming on the silk of his dressing gown like the moon on the water outside. Gleaming on Miller's bare skin, making that all-over tan look like polished bronze. The golden boy's right where you'd expect him, kneeling at the boss's feet, sucking the old man's cock nice and slow like he's trying to make it last all night. He's got more patience than me, that's for sure. Two years away would have driven me mad, and I'd be desperate enough for a taste of the boss that you'd have to pry me off with a crowbar to get me to slow down. But Miller, he looks like he wants to savour every last minute. Like he's rationing the pleasure out, bit by bit. Like this might be the last chance he gets.

"Still so eager," the boss says, cupping his hand around the back of Miller's neck. "Still as much of a slut as you were two years ago, aren't you?"

Miller makes a happy, muffled little sound of pleasure deep in his throat, and reaches down to take hold of his own cock. I can see his hand shaking just slightly as he strokes himself, the way mine does when I'm full of adrenaline. I've seen a lot of guys in that position, but the look in Miller's eyes as he stares up at the boss, _that_ I've never seen before. There's lust in that gaze, sure, and a bit of fear, just like anyone else would have in Miller's place. But on top of all that, more than all that, there's a kind of devotion, adoration, I don't know, something I can't put into words. It's like watching someone pray.

"Still as skilled as you were back then, too." The boss strokes Miller's hair like he's petting a cat, slow and firm. "But then, you had plenty of Moreno's men around to keep you sharp, didn't you?"

Miller pulls back and says something, too soft for me to catch it, but whatever it was must have been good, because the boss grabs a handful of that neat blond hair and yanks his head back roughly enough that I can almost feel it myself.

"Plenty…" Miller groans, stroking himself a little faster now. "But I never forgot who owns me, Uncle Jack. Not for a moment."

"That's my boy," the boss says, quiet and low enough that I have to strain to hear it. His other hand comes up to grip Miller's chin, and his thumb traces along the edge of those wet, smiling lips, and I have to bite my lip to keep from urging him on, begging him to give Miller what for.

"Please, Uncle Jack…" Miller moans, looking up at the old man with desperate eyes. "Please, it's been so long–"

The boss slaps him hard, first with his palm and then with a nasty backhand, and now both of those golden cheeks are turning a nice shade of red and Miller looks like he's about to die of happiness. The minute the old man lets go of his hair, he leans forward and gets right back to work, sliding his lips along the boss's shaft until he's almost the whole way down, until I can see his throat working, trying to take just a little bit more. I can hear him making quiet little noises of satisfaction, muffled and soft, while that hand of his just keeps working slow and steady over the length of his own cock, and that's too much for me, I can't resist touching myself now, not with all this going on right in front of me. Even if I don't like the guy, I'm not going to pass up a show like that. So I lean against the doorframe, biting my lip to try and stay silent, and I slip a hand down to stroke myself as quiet as I can.

I get a couple of strokes in, not much more than a warm-up really, before a pair of rough hands grabs me from behind, one over my mouth and the other around my throat, and all of a sudden I'm being dragged backward through the hallway, too fast for me to even try to fight him off. The hand on my mouth stays in place until Joe's bundled me into the lounge and closed the door behind us, until he's shoved me up against the wall and pinned me there, and even then it only moves down to my throat.

"First time I've ever caught a peeping tom," Joe says, giving me one of those nasty smiles that works like a red rag on a bull.

"Oh yeah?" I start to say, but I don't get a chance to ask what he's going to do with me now he's caught me. That hand clamps back down over my mouth, and before I know what's hit me Joe's got me spun around with my arm twisted up behind my back.

"You're going to keep nice and quiet for me," he hisses, close to my ear. "Or I'll make you wish you never set foot in this place."

I want to tell him to do his worst, but his palm is so tight over my lips that all I can do is glare back at him silently and hope he gets the message. And he does. He spins me back around and slams me against the wall hard enough that they must have heard the impact next door, but I don't get a chance to taunt him with that. Joe's hand stays tight on my mouth while his other fist swings up into my stomach, so the yelp of pain it drives out of me is muffled and lost against his palm. He holds me in place like I'm just a ragdoll, pins me there with one hand and whales on me with the other, and every single blow seems perfectly designed to hurt me without making a racket. I don't know how he does it. All I know is my stomach and chest are on fire with pain, and every time he looks down at me with that nasty glint of satisfaction in his eyes, I get a little harder and a little more desperate. Desperate enough to arch up and grind against him even though I know he's just going to mock me for it.

"On your knees," he says, shoving me down so I've got no choice. Which is fine by me, I've been wanting this since he grabbed me in the hallway, but I can't resist baiting him.

"What, on my knees like a good boy? Like that nice boy in the next room?" I say, nice and quiet, but the smirk I'm giving him is at full volume. "You jealous of what the boss is getting a piece of, _Uncle Joe_?"

Joe just laughs and shoves my head down, forces his cock into my mouth before I can say another word, and starts fucking my throat a hell of a lot more roughly than I reckon that nice boy next door could take on a good day. It's brutal right from the start, just like it always is with Joe, vicious enough to get my eyes watering and my cock aching to be touched. I reach down to stroke myself, bracing myself for Joe to notice and kick my hand aside, but he doesn't seem to care. So I get right down to it. I'm not going to waste time going slow, rationing this out piece by piece like Miller. I can just picture him on the other side of that wall, stroking himself slowly like he's got all the time in the world, taking the boss's cock and asking politely for more, kneeling there so patient and well-behaved, so obedient and well-trained, so smooth and soft and so much more than–

"You little punk," Joe hisses, yanking my head back. He lets me have it right across the face, holding me in position until the last of it spatters against my chin, until I'm dripping with his come. Then he shoves me to the floor and gives me a good solid kick in the stomach, just in case I had any fancy ideas about finishing myself off, or talking, or breathing.

"Keep your mind on the job, next time," he says, and then he's gone, and I'm curled up on the carpet trying to get some air back into my lungs. Rolling over onto my front is painful, and pushing myself up onto my knees makes me wince, but I'm smiling to myself the whole time. Miller couldn't take a kick like that. He couldn't take the kind of beating I usually get, he'd be bawling and begging for mercy before Joe even got warmed up. No, Miller couldn't take what I can take. But still, I wouldn't mind watching him try.


	2. First Class

When Miller found out he was going away on assignment again, heading down south to do some work for an old friend of the boss, there was a moment where you could see exactly what the golden boy thought of _that_ idea. Just a couple of seconds, but you could see it plain as day. The disappointment, the way it hurt him, the way the unfairness of it stung. And then the look in his eyes flattened out into obedience, and he said "Yes, Uncle Jack," the way he'd been saying it all weekend, so calm and pleasant that anyone'd think he didn't mind at all. I couldn't help laughing, which I guess makes me about as low as you can get, but I got my comeuppance a couple of seconds later, when the boss gave me _my_ orders: go with Miller, do whatever he needs me to, and stay down there until this old friend is done with us. We could be down south for weeks, if not months. So now Miller's not the only one feeling sore.

"You haven't met Mr Nash, have you?" Miller says, leaning back and draping his coat over the empty seat next to him. We've barely been on the train two minutes, and already he's settling in like he's right at home.

"So?" I snap, putting my feet up on the opposite seat, next to his coat. We've got the compartment to ourselves, the boss saw to that, and Miller looks like he's thoroughly enjoying himself. Me, I've been twitchy since the minute we stepped into first class, and now that I'm sitting back on a big plush seat that could probably hold four of me, I'm itching for a fight. But Miller just lets my tone slide right by him, and gives me one of those easy smiles.

"I have, a few years back. He's different to Uncle Jack, so you'll need to change your approach." Miller leans forward, steepling his hands together. "Mr Nash will tolerate a small amount of defiance, but if you push it too far, you won't be reprimanded, you'll just be dismissed. So don't go overboard with the backchat, alright?"

He looks like he's coaching an apprentice, and that riles me right up, because I might be pretty low in the pecking order, but I'm not green enough to need a pep talk from some soft little pencil pusher like him.

"Yeah, sure, whatever." I shrug. "But if this guy doesn't go for backchat, why am I coming along at all?"

"Because I need you, that's why." Miller just looks at me, silent and still for a moment, giving me the kind of stare he must have learnt from the boss. "I need someone reliable, someone who can think on his feet. Do you think Uncle Jack would send you all the way down here with me if you weren't right for the job?"

And I don't know what to say to that, so I just keep my mouth shut and look out of the window, as if the trees rushing by outside are suddenly really riveting. Miller leaves that question where it is. I spend a couple of minutes pretending to watch the view from the window, and when I glance across to Miller he's doing the same, only he's smiling like one of those painted saints who looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. The silence feels like water flooding in around us, slowly filling the compartment up, inch by inch until I'm up to my eyes in it. I'd rather be in third class, crammed in with bickering families and screaming kids, than sitting in this big silent cage with Miller. Which is funny, because the last time I was in first class, I had to hide from the conductor so he didn't throw me back into third. This time I'd be thanking him for the favour.

We pass a couple of hours like that, me looking out of my window and him looking out of his. A couple of hours' worth of pretending to look at the countryside and the run-down little stations we stop at. A couple of hours of wondering how quickly I can get this job wrapped up, how quickly I'll be able to come home and get things back to normal. Wondering whether things ever will get back to normal, with Miller around. He must know just what I'm thinking, because the next time I glance at Miller, he's looking right at me. Smiling at me, so casual and light that I can't help glaring back at him. His smile doesn't falter. Not even slightly.

"So," he says airily, like we're making small talk over drinks, "how did you end up working for Uncle Jack?"

"I thought you said you knew all about me?"

"Oh, I do," he laughs, quiet and soft. "But I wanted to hear your version."

"My version?" I scoff, turning away to look out of the window again. "You wouldn't be interested in that, it's not half as dramatic as _your_ story. Maybe I should rewrite it, come up with something that'll pull the heartstrings a bit more, what do you reckon?"

He lets that go too, and moves on as smoothly as if I didn't say anything at all. "You prefer not to carry a gun, don't you?"

"So?" I shrug. "You worried I won't be able to get the job done?"

"Not at all," he says, giving me a smile I can't read. "In fact, I prefer it that way. Mr Nash will probably want you to carry something, but if possible I'd like to avoid this job becoming too…"

"Messy?" I laugh, because I've spotted what I reckon is a bit of squeamishness in the golden boy's eyes. "Don't worry, Miller, I'll take care of any messy work that needs doing. You won't have to get your hands dirty. You'll be just as pristine when you go back to your dear old Uncle Jack as you were when you came down here."

He puts his hands in his pockets, and looks away. I think I'm getting to him. So I keep pressing on that point, harder and harder, just to see what happens. "That's right, don't you worry," I say, moving over to sit next to him, and I put my hand on his arm like I'm comforting a frightened kid. "I'll make sure you don’t have to handle anything too unpleasant. You can just stick to your books, and let me take care of all the hard work."

Miller stays silent. There's a little voice in the back of my head saying maybe I should can it, maybe needling him isn't such a good idea. But I can't stop now. "And maybe," I say, moving my hand up to his cheek, "if you're a good boy, I'll take care of _you_ , too."

"That's enough," Miller says, and before I know it he's leaning over me with one hand gripping my shoulder and the other one holding a flick-knife to my throat. I didn't even see him pull it. With that kind of speed, he could have cut me open before I'd even realised what was in his hand. With that kind of skill, I'm surprised he hasn't slit my throat already. But he just looks down at me with that same quiet smile curling his lips, and presses the blade a little firmer against my skin. "Do you really think I spent all those years working for Uncle Jack without learning how to handle boys like you?"

The way he looks at me, it's like there's a little echo of the boss in him, something cold and hard underneath that sunny smile. My body reacts like someone's turned the key in the ignition. "Careful," I say, clenching my fists to stop my hands shaking. "You get my blood on this nice upholstery, they'll make you pay for the damage."

"And it'd come out of your wages," Miller says, trailing the tip of that knife down to my collar and back up again. Every time he moves it a little thrill of excitement jolts through me, and I can't stop myself arching up toward him. He laughs, and pushes his leg between mine, firm enough that he must be able to feel how hard all this is getting me. When I grind up against his thigh, he doesn't look surprised at all. Satisfied, but not surprised.

"Now," he says, closing the knife and slipping it back into his pocket, "why don't you settle down? We've got a long journey ahead of us, so you might as well relax and enjoy it."

The hardness in his eyes slips away, hidden out of sight again along with the knife. Now he's all smiles, and as I sit back in my seat, he opens up his briefcase and takes out a book. I'm just about to give him a line about that, when he takes out something else too, and tosses it across onto my lap. A film magazine. So I guess he really does know all about me. I open it up and make like I'm reading, just like he is, but I can't concentrate enough to do anything but look at the pictures. I can't get the thought of that knife out of my head. I can't stop thinking about the way it felt against my skin, the way he pulled it so fast I'd have had no chance, the way he looked down at me like he'd have happily cut me to ribbons. The way he snapped so suddenly, like he's got those urges tucked away tightly inside somewhere, straining to get out. I need to see him snap again. I need to make him let loose. And I will, don't worry about that. No matter what it takes, I'm going to rub some of the gilt off the golden boy.


	3. Nightlife

Everything's bigger down here. The streets, the cars, the houses, everything. Even the guy Nash sent to pick us up is huge. He looks like he could have just slung me over one shoulder and Miller over the other and carried us home. Although, given that he looks about twice my age, maybe that wouldn't be such a hot idea for his back. The thought makes me smirk, and Miller gives me one of _those_ looks. Just the slightest raised eyebrow, but I've seen it often enough now to get the message loud and clear. _Sure_ , that looks says, _run your mouth if you really have to, but remember what'll happen if you go too far_. Well, I've got no intention of messing this job up and being sent home in disgrace, so Miller's got no need to worry. I can keep my mouth shut when it counts. I hold my tongue all the way into Nash's oversized house, all the way through a long hallway that looks like an art gallery, and it's only when we're shaking hands with the old man in a lounge that looks like a museum that my instinct to make trouble really starts to kick in.

Miller warned me about Nash, warned me he wouldn't tolerate much mouthing off, but looking at him I can't see what the golden boy's so worried about. He just looks like someone's rich old granddad. Maybe a bit stuffy and old-fashioned, but not the ogre I was expecting. He looks like he'd just tut and pat you on the head if you talked back to him. But Miller's in charge here, so I let him make the introductions, and I just smile and nod and say hello like a good boy while Nash tells us how pleased he is to have us here. Then I keep on smiling and nodding while he explains the job to Miller, because so much of that goes over my head that I feel like it's pointless me even being here. All I really manage to gather is that we're here to help Nash with some casino he's bought that isn't bringing in the profits it should be. Something about how Miller helped that Moreno guy with a similar job while he was away, and after that I don't catch the rest of the conversation, because all of a sudden I'm slipping off into a daydream about exactly what other duties Miller took care of while he was working under Moreno. I can just imagine him in one of those rooftop gardens, working on that all-over tan while Moreno's guys work on _him_. I can picture him spread out on one of those loungers, soaking up the sun and a whole lot more.

"No, I think that covers everything," Miller says, glancing at me as he stands up. "Doesn't it?"

"Uh, yeah." I stand up too, nodding like I've got any idea what he's talking about.

 "Good," Nash says, putting a hand on each of our backs and steering us toward the door. "In that case, Desmond will take you back to your hotel for the night. You can get started at the casino tomorrow. And in the meantime, get plenty of rest, boys," the old man chuckles. "I intend to work you both very hard."

Now, _that_ I understand. The big guy opens the lounge door, and Nash herds us all through into the hallway, and I'm just trying to figure out which of the two of them I'd rather be worked hard by when the front door swings open and a young guy comes striding in with a look on his face that could curdle milk. He's cute, probably barely out of his teens. Dressed expensively, too. Pristine jeans and a leather jacket that looks brand new, the kind of getup that screams 'delinquent rich boy'. The kind that's just begging to be scuffed and ripped and torn right off.

"Excellent timing." Nash smiles, ushering me and Miller forward. "This is my son, Daniel."

"Oh yeah?" I laugh. "Your son, or your ' _son_ '?" And yeah, I know I'm supposed to be watching my mouth, but I've been good all afternoon, so I reckon I'm due a bit of exercise. Miller looks daggers at me, which I guess answers my question, but then the boy's scowl breaks into a smirk for just a moment, and it's a cute enough look to make stepping out of line worthwhile.

"Daniel," the old man says, ignoring me outright, "come over here and let me introduce you."

"To a couple more of your lackeys? No thanks." the boy sneers, slamming the front door behind him and heading off up the stairs without even looking at Nash.

" _Daniel_." The big guy says the kid's name like he'd rather be getting his message across with the back of his hand, but Nash just shakes his head.

"Let him go, Desmond."

And like you'd expect, Desmond does as he's told, but I can see in his eyes how much he'd like to teach that boy a lesson. Which is something I wouldn't mind seeing. Hell, I wouldn't mind doing it myself, only I don't think I'd be half as effective at it as Desmond here. If _he_ taught you a lesson with those big hands of his, it'd stay taught. At least for a little while.

"Now," the old man says, turning back to me and Miller. "As I was saying, Desmond will take you to the hotel."

"Goodbye then, Mr Nash," Miller says, giving him one of those bright golden smiles, and I'll bet right about now the old man's wishing he had a son like this one. Who knows, maybe if Miller plays his cards right, he could get himself adopted.

 

* * *

 

I've never gotten the point of gambling. Taking risks, sure. Spending money, maybe, even if I'd rather be earning it. But gambling? Doesn't do a thing for me, never has. So the closest I usually get to places like this is hanging around outside waiting for the right kind of sucker to come strolling out and spend his winnings on me. And now I'm sitting here in a crowd of those suckers, watching them losing and losing and losing some more. Every so often I see one of them win big, and the old urge wells up, telling me to go and glue myself to that lucky guy's side until he runs out of money again. It's tempting. I mean, the people here don't mess about betting a few pounds here and there, they're serious, and when I say they win big, I mean _big_. But then I remember that I'm down here waiting for Miller, that I've got orders to stay here til he comes and gets me, and if he comes down from that office to find me gone I'll be on the next train back north once he gets hold of me. It's funny how short a leash you can end up on without even realising it. I guess Miller's got me held hostage. So I keep myself amused by watching the crowd, deciding which marks would get my attention if I was in here on my own, letting myself daydream a bit about entertaining one of those big spenders, and by the time Miller finally comes out of the office and heads down the stairs toward me, I'm almost disappointed to see him.

"I'm done here for the night," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "You can head back to the hotel."

"What about you?"

"I've got an errand to take care of first."

I knock back the last of my drink and stand up. "I'll come with you, then. Not much point bringing me along as backup if you're going to wander off on your own, is there?"

Miller just looks at me for a moment, and that hard edge comes back into his eyes. "This isn't the kind of errand I need your help with."

And that just makes me want to come along even more, but I'm not going to push my luck. If he doesn't need me, he doesn't need me. "Alright then." I shrug. Why should I care? It's not like I can't entertain myself for a few hours. "Any objections if I stop off at one of those clubs we saw on the way in?"

"None at all." Miller puts his hand on the back of my neck, warm and firm. "As long as you don't get yourself into any trouble."

I give him a grin and a little salute, and then I get out of there as quick as I can, like I can't wait to get away. I've got no problem being left to my own devices, none at all, and I'm not having him thinking I'd rather trail around after him all night.

Once I get out of the casino, I just walk for a while, drinking it all in. I feel like a dog in a street full of butchers' shops, spoilt for choice and hardly knowing where to start. There's so many doors I could go through. So much neon dazzling me everywhere I look, so much loud music flooding out of those open doors, so many hungry eyes that meet mine as I stroll past. Even the barkers don’t seem half as annoying as they do back home, and even as I'm telling them to get lost I'm doing it with a big stupid grin on my face. I should thank Miller for letting me off the leash tonight, because I haven't felt this excited for weeks.

The first club I try looks promising enough from the outside – there's enough neon on the front of it to light up the whole street in hot pink and yellow, bright and tasteless like food dye – but once I get inside, it turns out the place is practically a ghost town. Hardly any dancers, only a handful of customers. All those empty podiums look kind of sad and lonely, and the last thing I want to be thinking about tonight is loneliness, so I have one quick drink there and press on to the next place. Which is far more like it, far more my style. Packed, smoky, dripping in red velvet and gilt, and the band's got a horn section blaring loud enough I can barely hear myself think. Perfect. It's good enough that I hardly even mind the way all the drinks cost twice as much as they would back home.

I settle down at a table near the edge of the room, and try to lose myself in the stageshow. They've got a couple of dancers on the main stage, styled like twins. Not well enough to be really convincing, mind you, but good enough to catch my eye. They're maybe a couple of years younger than me, lean and pale, dressed up in matching costumes, all silk and rouge and glitter, only one's in white and one's in red. The red one must be the bad twin. He looks pretty bad to me, anyway, like if you got your hands on him you'd end up covered in scratches from those scarlet nails, and maybe missing your wallet, but it'd be worth it. It'd be well worth it, but I'm not supposed to be getting myself into trouble tonight, so I'm not even going to try my luck. I'm going to sit here and watch the show like a good boy.

And in any case, my mood could go either way tonight, so I spend about as much time checking out the older guys in the crowd as I do watching those dancing boys. Most of the guys sitting around me have got their eyes glued to the stage, but I can see a few others like me dotted around the place, all glancing casually across the room every so often to see if the right kind of customer's turned up. And that means when I spot Desmond coming through the doors of the club, so do about half a dozen other guys, and _that_ means I'm on my feet and heading toward him before he's even sat down at his table. I'm not taking any chances. No-one's going to beat me to the punch tonight.

"Fancy meeting you here." I sit down across from him and throw him a look as hot as those stage-lights.

Desmond gives me a nice, easy smile like he knows just what I'm thinking. "All the new guys end up in this place eventually," he says, taking a cigar out of his jacket pocket. When I lean in to light it for him he gives me another smile, only this one's got a lot more heat behind it. "Not usually on their second night, though."

"What can I say? I move fast." I grin, and take a sip of my drink. He watches me swallow it, and I can almost feel his eyes on my throat, on my lips when I dart my tongue out to lick them, on my wrists as I fidget with the cuff of my shirt. His gaze feels about as heavy on my skin as I reckon those big hands would. With someone like him around, I'm not surprised that boy Daniel's got such a bad attitude. In that kid's place, I'd be mouthing off all day every day, until Desmond snapped and gave me what for. Which is a nice thought, and it gives me a great idea.

"What about your boss's son?" I ask, nice and casual, watching Desmond's expression to see if I'm on the right track. "Does _he_ ever come down here?"

Desmond just looks at me, and I can see right away that I've hit a big, juicy raw nerve. The kind I can't resist playing with.

"Maybe you should bring him along," I shrug, carrying on like I haven't noticed that stony look in his eyes. "Maybe blowing off steam somewhere like this'd improve his attitude."

There's a few moments of thick, taut silence. His mouths sets into a hard frown and his brow furrows, and for a minute I wonder if I've gone too far already. Maybe even mentioning the boy is off-limits. Maybe the thought of him isn't the red rag I was hoping for. Then finally Desmond laughs, deep and rough, and shakes his head. "It'd take a lot more than blowing off steam to keep that boy in line."

"Well," I laugh, throwing him a little smirk, "I've got no need to talk, you should see how much it takes to keep _me_ in line."

And now I _must_ be on the right track, because Desmond just smiles, shoves some money at me across the table and tells me what he's having to drink, as if he's putting an order in with the waiter. Now, usually I'd throw a bit of backchat his way in return for that order, but tonight I find myself going over to the bar without a single complaint. Maybe it’s because I've been fetching and carrying for Miller all day, and I'm just grateful to be doing it for someone a bit more seasoned. Or maybe I'm getting used to holding my tongue, I don't know. But Desmond seems to approve, and when I come back and set his drink down in front of him, he pulls my chair around closer to his and pats it with one big palm.

"Sit down," he says, and even if his tone is quiet and restrained, that's an order if ever I heard one. "Their act's almost finished."

I do as I'm told and sit down. It looks like I almost missed the best bit, too, because now most of those red and white costumes are on the floor, and so are the dancers. They're kneeling right at the front of the stage, just out of reach of the audience, writhing and grinding in time to the music, mirroring each others' moves perfectly. When they drape their arms around each other, you can almost taste the tension in the air, and when they lean in almost close enough to kiss, the crowd goes crazy. The music swells up into a crescendo, and the twins lean in again, just grazing their lips together quick enough that if you blinked you'd miss it. And then they're gone. The lights dim, the music settles down, and a handful of couples start making their way out of the place like they were just waiting for the big finish to wrap up. I don't blame them, either. Those twins were enough to get anyone's motor running, and when I turn back around to Desmond, he looks like he's got the same idea.

"So, why don't we–" I start to say, but before I can get my next line out, he puts one big hand on my shoulder and gives it a nice hard squeeze.

"Come on," he says, and I'm on my feet, following him out of the club before he's even told me where we're going.

I was kind of hoping we'd go back to his place, but I guess he's not in the mood to wait, because we end up in one of the little hourly hotels just down the street from the club. The counter clerk nods at Desmond as he passes him the key, as if the big guy's down here all the time, so I guess all the new guys end up _here_ eventually too. And so does everyone else, judging by how busy the corridors are. We have to push past a couple of guys on the landing who haven't even made it into their room, they're just leaning up against the wall, kissing and pawing at each other hot and heavy enough that I reckon you'd have to turn a hose on them to get them to clear off. I can't help laughing. Desmond might not be in the mood to wait much, but I guess he's more patient than I gave him credit for. He waits until we're all the way into the hotel room, until the door's closed and locked behind us, until I've thrown my jacket and tie across the chair and gotten started on my shirt, before he grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.

"D'you bring all the new staff down here, then?" I press up against him, running my hands up over the lapels of his jacket. "Or just the ones that need breaking in?"

"They all need breaking in," Desmond says, bringing one hand up to grip the back of my neck. "Some of them more than once."

I lean forward and grind against his leg, letting him feel how much I like that idea, and then I look up at him with a smirk. "How many goes do you think it'd take to break Daniel in?"

"Just the one." Desmond slides his other hand down to cup my ass, squeezing it roughly enough that I can't help wincing. "If it was done properly."

"And you'd get it done good and proper, wouldn't you?" I slip one arm around his neck and reach down between us with the other, rubbing my palm along the length of his cock. I can feel the heat of him even through the thick fabric between us, and if it feels half as good skin on skin as it does right now, I'm going to be making enough noise to bring the walls down by the time he's done with me.

"Show me," I say, grinding harder against his thigh. "Show me how you'd break him in."

His cock swells against my palm, straining against the material of his trousers, so I guess he likes that thought as much as I do. When he grabs my hair and yanks my head back, I look up at him with the same careless defiance I saw on that boy's face, smirking as if I don't really think he'll go through with it. Then he throws me back onto the cheap little bed, hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and it's suddenly a whole lot harder to keep that smirk fixed in place. It's all I can do not to beg him to fuck me. But I keep quiet, and just watch as he takes off his jacket and advances on me. I watch the light spilling in from the neon outside, flickering on and off, glinting on the grey in his hair and the metal of his cufflinks. I watch the look in his eyes getting darker and hungrier, and I can't help slipping a hand down to stroke myself through my trousers. Maybe that's out of character, but I'm too worked up to resist, and in any case Desmond just laughs, curt and mocking, and drags me by the hair over to the edge of the bed until my head's level with his crotch.

"D' you think he'd put up much of a fight?" I murmur, rubbing my cheek against the bulge of Desmond's cock, trailing my lips down along the ridge of it. I'm eager for it, alright, but when he takes it out and holds the tip to my lips I stay right where I am, smirking up at him, waiting for him to force the issue.

"He'd shut up and suck it," Desmond says, tightening his grip on my hair, "if he knew what was good for him."

I might be playing a smart-mouthed little brat, but I don't need telling twice. I open my mouth and let him shove my head down, rough and fast, until my throat's full of his cock and my lips are stretched around the shaft of it. Which is another bit of artistic license, I guess, because I reckon that rich boy wouldn't get halfway down Desmond's cock before he was coughing and choking. Even _I'm_ having trouble with the last few inches, and I have to brace myself and focus on my breathing the way I haven't done for years. But I get there in the end, and it's worth the effort. When I'm all the way down, with my face pressed flush to his lap and my throat straining around him, Desmond groans low and rough enough that the sound alone pushes me along another couple of notches toward the edge, and I've barely even touched myself yet.

"That's right, take it…" he says, and that big hand grips the back of my neck, holding me in place while he fucks my throat. I want to tell him to _make_ me take it, but all I can manage is a muffled little moan, so I settle for sliding a hand down and unbuttoning my own fly. Maybe I should hold off, maybe I should play this more reluctant, but I'm too hot and bothered now to resist. I stroke myself nice and slow, doing my best to pace myself, because this whole setup's got me wound up so tight that I'll be done in no time at all if I'm not careful. It's hard to be careful, though, with the taste and the smell of him filling my head like this, making me crazy for it. All I can think about is the way that heavy hand cups the back of my neck just right, the way my jaw aches and my lips are sore already, the way my throat feels like it's being beaten raw. I think about all of that, and I stare up at him each time he pulls back, trying to show him how much I want it, how much I need it, how right now I'd do anything for it. And I guess he gets the message, because he just chuckles and shoves me down harder, holds me there until I'm almost choking, until I'm digging my nails into his thighs and shuddering and trying to push myself up off him, so that when he finally hauls me up by the hair and lets go of me, I drop down onto the mattress like I'm made of lead.

"Get up, and take your clothes off," he orders, harsh enough that I reckon he'd happily rip them off me if I took too long about it.

So I do as I'm told and strip off, and as soon as I'm naked, Desmond just grabs me and puts me where he wants me. No orders this time, just those hands closing around my arms and hauling me into position. He's got me bent over the bed, opposite the mirror on the wardrobe door, placed just right so I can watch everything. When he leans over to take a little bottle of lube out of his jacket, I don't even have to crane my neck to watch him slicking the stuff over his fingers, and the sight of that gets me more desperate for it than ever. I can’t take my eyes off him. Then he puts one hand on my back, heavy enough that I can barely move an inch underneath it, and slides the other down between the cheeks of my ass, and I can't help moaning. It's all I can manage not to start pleading with him. His hands look so big resting against me, I feel downright scrawny in comparison, like I really am just a soft little rich boy. I might as well be, with hands that heavy and strong pinning me down, opening me up, sliding inside me one thick finger at a time until I'm pushing back against his knuckles and bunching up those cheap bedclothes in my fists like I'm trying to tear them to shreds.

"Come on, old man, don’t keep me waiting…" I say, trying to make it sound more like a jab and less like a plea, but the way it comes out is about as desperate as you could get. I reckon if I really was the little punk we've both got in mind, he'd string this out all night just to torment me. But I guess deep down I must be in Desmond's good books, because he just laughs and gets into position behind me, lining his cock up against my ass. He barely teases me at all, just pushes forward slow and careful, holding me in position with one hand on my neck as he feeds his cock into me. And it's a good job he's holding me down, because I always want to shove myself backward and take the whole lot in one go, no matter how much it hurts. This time I'm going nowhere. Not with one of his hands on the back of my neck and the other on my hip, firm enough that I might as well be tied in place. I just have to stand there and take it, inch by maddening inch, until he's in all the way, and even then he holds still, forcing me to wait and get used to it for what feels like hours. When he finally pulls back and starts to move I have to bite my lip to keep from begging for more.

I can't take my eyes off the mirror, off the sight of him fucking me, leaning over me and grinding into me. The only thing better than that sight is the feeling of his cock driving into me. It's the contrast between us that really gets me. He's so tall and broad, and all but fully-dressed, and I look so breakable in comparison, small and soft and stark naked, pinned underneath him with no hope of moving a muscle he doesn't want me to move. I look almost helpless, and that gets me so hot and bothered I'm begging for his cock before I even know what I'm saying.

"Enjoying the view?" Desmond says, and all I can do is nod and groan. Which must be good enough for him, because the next thing I know, he's pulling out and sitting down on the bed and hauling me astride him like I'm just a doll he can move around into whatever position he likes. Well, I hope he likes this one, because I _love_ it. He's got me riding him right in front of the mirror, and if I look over my shoulder I can see it all, every detail, up close and personal. I can see his hand on my waist, with those big fingers digging into my skin nice and tight. I can see my thighs draped either side of his, with light from outside tinging my bare skin pastel colours. And I can see his cock sinking into me, spreading my ass wide open, filling me up with so much hard flesh it looks like I should be howling for him to stop.

"You love watching, don't you?" he says, taking hold of my cock in his free hand, so firm I can't help but thrust up into his grip. "Look how hard it's got you, you filthy boy."

I nod again, murmuring the best attempt at an agreement I can manage with my head swimming and all my nerves on fire, which isn't much. I guess a nod and a moan doesn't count, though, because Desmond keeps on at me like I didn't even open my mouth.

"You like seeing my cock sliding into you," he taunts me, holding my chin in one hand like he's forcing me to watch. "You like seeing your ass stretched wide open around it, don't you? Filthy little slut."

And I _do_ , and I _am_ , and somehow Desmond seems to know exactly what buttons to push to get me squirming and groaning and slamming myself down onto his cock like I don't care if he breaks me. "Please," I moan against his shoulder, clinging onto him as I watch. "Fuck me, please, make me take it…"

"You'll take whatever I give you and like it, boy," he says, and I guess he wants to underline that point, because he grabs hold of my thighs and stands up, lifting me right up with him like carrying me is nothing, and before I can say a word he's hauling me back against the wall and pinning me there, fucking me in short hard thrusts that feel like he's trying to drill me clear through it. He's made his point, alright. I've got no choice but to take what he's giving me, what he's slamming into me, what he's driving me crazy with. All I can do is wrap my arms and legs around him and hold on tight.

"Please," I murmur, but I don't even know what I'm begging for. More, harder, faster, I don't know. Anything. Anything he'll give me. Desmond just laughs and throws me down onto the bed, and I lie where he puts me, spreading my legs as wide as they'll go and holding them there with a hand under each knee, waiting for him to come down here and slide back into me again. "Come on, Desmond, please…" I groan, moving my hands down to my ass, stroking a fingertip around the rim of it, feeling how open he's left me, how well-used and wet with lube I am. "Don't torment me, give it to me again, come on…"

For a moment he just looks down at me with one of those cruel smiles, the kind old guys like him always throw at me right before they kick me out, and then he kneels between my thighs and slides his cock all the way back into my ass, forcing the whole thing inside me in one thrust, hard and sharp and deep enough to make me wail like he's killing me. I keep on begging, even as he starts to fuck me again, even as he's reaming my ass so hard I can barely think, hard enough I don't know what I'm saying. I'll say anything, do anything, if only he'll keep fucking me like that, if only he'll keep driving that thick cock into me, pinning me down, grinding and hammering and drilling into me like he could go all night. Anything, anything at all, I don't care. I just keep begging for it, telling him how good it feels, how deep he's fucking me, how much I want to come with his cock inside me, and when I reach down to start stroking myself he just bats my hand away and wraps those strong fingers around my shaft tight enough that I've got no choice in the matter. All I can do is lie back and let him toy with me, let him manipulate me, let him push me right up to the edge and hold me there until I'm twisting and squirming and bucking underneath him.

"Let go, boy," he orders, and between his voice and his grip, I've got no chance. I come right on cue, thrusting up into his fist and clawing at his back, yelping and crying out loud enough the whole place must be able to hear me, and when I finally let go of him and sag back against the bed, he's smiling down at me like I just put on a virtuoso performance. It must have been good, because the old guy finishes right after me, hammering into me maybe half a dozen times and then slamming in all the way in one last thrust, hard enough to make me wince.

Usually I get thrown out as soon as I'm done, or left to tidy up on my own once the old guy's finished with me, but Desmond just sits down and waits while I get dressed. He doesn't hurry me along, and when my legs decide to come over all weak while I'm putting my trousers back on, he even puts out a hand to stop me stumbling. Maybe they do things differently down here. Or maybe he's just used to shepherding young guys around, I don't know. In any case, I'm too tired to do anything but mumble a thank-you at him and follow him down to the lobby. He's got his arm around my shoulder the whole time, strong and warm, almost like we're friends. If I wasn't so tired that'd have me running my mouth and baiting the old guy until he gave me what for all over again, but as it is, I don't even bother giving him any backchat when he pats me on the shoulder and tells me to enjoy the rest of the night. I just smile at him and say goodnight, and prop myself up against a lamppost to wait for a taxi to come by.

I wait for what feels like ages, but I don't really mind. It's a warm night, much warmer than anything you'd get back home, and watching the crowds wandering from club to bar to hotel isn't a bad way to pass the time. Then a familiar figure catches my eye over the road, and I look around just in time to see Desmond strolling by with a couple of young guys, one arm around each of them and a big, wolfish smile on his face. I can't help laughing. Twice my age, and twice my stamina too, it looks like.

 

* * *

 

When I get back, Miller's stretched out on his bed in those fancy silk pyjamas, with the evening paper in his hands. "Waiting up for me, were you?" I grin at him, slinging my jacket over the chair on my side of the room. "Worried I'd got myself into a scrape or something?"

"No," Miller says, smiling at me and putting his paper aside. "I trust you not to get into trouble while we're down here. For Uncle Jack's sake, if not your own."

That knocks me off-kilter a bit, but I keep going. "The nightlife down here's pretty lively," I say, watching him as I start to undress. "You should try it, Miller. Might loosen you up a bit."

I can see his eyes flitting across all the details anyone else would miss. The rumpled suit, the little streaks of lube staining my shirt, the raw skin of my lips, everything. He knows what I've spent my evening doing, alright. He knows, but what he thinks about it, I've no idea. He just laughs that soft little laugh, and turns off the light on his bedside table. "Get some sleep," he says, with just the slightest bit of an edge to it. "I need you at your best tomorrow."

I roll my eyes, but it's a wasted gesture. Miller's already turned over, so I guess that's all I'm getting out of him tonight. I was pretty much dead on my feet when I got out of the taxi, but now I'm back here all of that tiredness is gone. I lie on the bed, listening to Miller's breathing, staring at the ceiling and trying to relax, but it's not happening. I can't stop thinking about that time on the train, about the glimpse I got of the other side of Miller, and right now it feels like sleep's the last thing my body wants to do. Alright, so maybe it'll take more than a bit of showing-off and baiting to ruffle Miller's feathers. Maybe I'll have to work a bit harder at it. But I'll ruffle them, alright, and I'll get what I want out of Miller, whatever it takes. That's the kind of thought I'm happy to let keep me up at night.


	4. All Business

He's as regular as clockwork. Every third day, as soon as we've finished at the casino, Miller goes off on one of his errands and doesn't come back til midnight. It annoyed me at first, the way he shooed me away every time I tried to invite myself along, but to be honest, it's kind of nice to have the hotel room to myself for a bit. With all the money Nash's got knocking around, you'd think he could have sprung for a full suite, or at least a couple of separate rooms. The old guy must be twice as rich as the boss, but it turns out he's three times as stingy, and ever since we came down here me and Miller have been crammed into a poky little twin room, living practically on top of each other. So as much as it riles me to see Miller going off on his own, at least it means I get some time to myself, and tonight I'm planning to use my four-hour holiday from the golden boy to get a bit of relaxation in. Nothing fancy, just me, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and the brand new physique pictorial I picked up from the big newsagents around the corner. Which is one of things that really underlined for me how different everything is down here, because back home I'd have had to send away by mail order for a something like this, but here I can just stroll into a shop and pick it up off the shelf like a packet of sweets. It's a different world. One that I reckon I could get used to.

So I've just settled down on the bed and started leafing through the pictorial when I get interrupted by a knock on the door. Now, I could ignore it, but the only people who know me and Miller are here are Nash's people, and I don't reckon the old guy would take kindly to me giving his staff the brush-off. And who knows, it might even be Desmond calling in for a second round. So I put my magazine down and answer the door, bracing myself to give the big guy some of that backchat I was too tired to come up with last time, but it’s not Desmond, and it's not any of Nash's other guys either.

"Hello," Daniel says, leaning against the doorframe, with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops like he's hawking his wares on a street-corner. And you know, he might be a bit on the clean-cut side, but if he wasn't Nash's son I'd probably be buying.

"What d'you want?" I say, and maybe that's a bit too abrupt, but if the boy's off-limits, there's no point having him hanging around any longer than he needs to. In fact, the sooner I get rid of him the better, because the longer he looks at me with that glint in his eyes, the harder it's going to be to keep myself on track. "Your dad got you running errands for him, has he?

"Ha!" the boy scoffs, and gives me a look like I've just insulted his honour. "My father doesn't know I'm here."

_Of course_ he doesn't. That'd be too simple, wouldn't it? I should probably just slam the door in the kid's face, save myself a lot of trouble. But then again, what if he goes running back to his old man and complains that I've been rude to him? If I'm going to earn Nash's disapproval, it's going to be for something a damn sight more satisfying than giving this little brat the cold shoulder. So I just stand there and shrug, as casual as I can manage. "Well, what are you here for, then?"

Of course, I know exactly what he's here for. He's after the same thing I was after, all those times _I_ turned up on some guy's doorstep uninvited. And as I look at him, at those arrogant eyes and that carefree smile, I can't help wondering if this is what all those guys saw when they looked at _me_.

"I just wanted some company, that's all." He gives me a smug little smirk like he thinks this is a done deal, and steps a little closer. Close enough that I can smell the scented pomade in his hair. Close enough that I can see his chest rise and fall under that flimsy t-shirt every time he takes a breath. Close enough that I've got klaxons going off in my head, screaming at me to get away from him.

"Go home, kid," I say, shaking my head. "You're not getting any company from me."

"Don’t be like that…" he says, bringing his hand up to my tie and toying with it like a kitten playing with a bit of string. The way he talks, it's like he doesn't even know the meaning of the word 'no', like he expects everything to go his way, like all he needs to do is bat his eyelashes and everyone around him falls into line. "You wouldn't send a boy away when he's lonely, would you?"

"Yeah." I catch hold of his wrist and move his hand away, keeping my tone as firm and hard as I can. "If I happen to be working for that boy's old man, I would."

"You're just like all the others," he says, and I guess I must have misread that smug expression, because all of a sudden Daniel's eyes are full of the kind of bitterness you only get from being knocked back. "You want me, don't you? You want me, but you won't touch me, because I'm _his_ son."

"That's right," I nod, and push him back as gently as I can, trying to keep a nice diplomatic smile on my face. "Look, if you were anyone else's son, I'd have been all over you that first day at your dad's house. But I've chased enough boys in my time who should have come with health warnings, and I'm not looking for another, alright?"

"I thought you were different. I thought you weren't afraid to defy him. No-one talks to him the way you talked to him." Daniel scowls up at me, giving me the same sour look he was wearing the first time I saw him. "But deep down you're scared of him, just like all the others."

"Listen," I say, letting the smile fall away from my lips. "I'm scared of someone, alright, but it's not your dad. And _that_ particular person makes Mr Nash look like the kindliest old gent you could imagine, so believe me when I say that any guy who'd lay a finger on you while he's supposed to be down here keeping his mind on the job – that guy wouldn't be brave, he'd be _insane_."

"Alright, fine," the boy says, turning away. "Forget I came here."

I shut the door, but I stand there listening for a moment to make sure he really is leaving, which means I'm close enough to hear him mutter "Coward," under his breath before he goes. Well, he can think what he likes. I've been called worse.

I finish my drink and pour myself a refill, trying not to think about the way his lips curled into that maddening little smirk. I stretch out on the bed again, trying to get those big, smoke-grey eyes out of my head. I pick up my magazine and try to carry on where I left off, but somehow my eyes glide right over the pictures like they're not even there. Thirty pages of bare skin and hard muscle, right here in my hands, and I'm distracted enough it might as well be the Radio Times. I should chase after that boy just to give him a smack in the face for ruining my concentration.

 

* * *

 

He said he could take anything I could dish out, and he wasn't kidding. He can't be much more than twenty, but he takes it like a seasoned pro. Every thrust I give him, he takes it like he was made for it, like he could go all night. And that voice, those half-swallowed little murmurs and groans, they're perfect. Quiet enough not to bring anyone wandering down the alley to see what's going on, but loud enough to spur me on, to make it that bit sweeter every time I slam into him. I tighten my grip on his shoulder, digging my nails into the leather of his jacket, and ramp up my pace. I want to break him. I want to hear him biting back yelps of pain, swallowing them down and trying his best to play the tough guy, even though his body's sore and his muscles are aching and all he can think about is the way my cock keeps pounding into him like I don't care if I tear him wide open. But the little punk laps it all up, every ounce of force and every shred of cruelty. He just laps it up and looks back over his shoulder, throwing me one of those smirks that screams, _is that all you've got?_

That smirk riles me up exactly how he wants, and maybe I should feel bad for being so easy to provoke, but I don't. I don't care how easy he can needle me. All I care about is the way he feels around me, the way he sounds when I give it to him hard and fast, the way he looks bent over like this. I've got him shoved up against the wall with his cheek pressed right to the brickwork, and I'm nailing him hard enough that he's going to have some really fetching grazes when I'm done. So as much as I'd rather be fucking Daniel like this, it's probably for the best that I'm not. At least _this_ boy won't be running off to his old man afterwards to complain that I've spoilt his pretty face. And it is a pretty one. He's at least as good-looking as Daniel, even if the details don't quite match. Sure, the eyes are the wrong colour, blue where they should be grey, and maybe his hair could do with being a shade darker, but it's good enough for me. Lit up like this, with just the neon and streetlamps to pick out the glint in his eyes and the curl of his lips, it's more than good enough. It's good enough that when he tips his head back and breathes out that he's close, I can't resist grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking on it hard enough to make the alley echo with the cry he gives. The way he tenses around me as he comes, the smooth heat of him tightening around my cock, it's more than enough to drag me right along with him. If it was Daniel, I'd pull out and let him have it right across that tight little ass, I'd let it spray against his skin until he was dripping with my come, until it ran down to stain those expensive jeans, until he was coated in the smell and the taste of me. Instead I just grab onto the boy's shoulders and slam into him as deep as I can for the last few strokes, and when he twists around to kiss me, I can't help but laugh to myself. Daniel wouldn't get a kiss, he'd get a slap in the face, old Mr Nash be damned.

So it's a good thing I settled for second-best tonight, but somehow once I've packed that boy off with a smile and a 'see you around', it doesn't feel like a good thing at all. It feels like a few drops of rain when I'm dying of thirst. I start walking back to the hotel, trying to get back before Miller's midnight deadline, trying to be at least a little bit good. But before I'm even halfway there, I'm hard again, and now it feels like it'll take a van-full of second-best boys to scratch this itch. I should go back to the hotel and wait for Miller. I should go to bed, sleep it off and hope I've forgotten all about that rich little punk by tomorrow. So I'm shaking my head as I turn right around and start heading back toward the bar. Who knows, maybe a second round will clear my head. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

It's about ten past twelve when I get back to the hotel, and by the time I let myself into our room, Miller's already in the shower. That bit's just like clockwork, too. Every single time, he's straight in there as soon as he gets back, as if these late-night errands are the type you need to scrub yourself clean after. What a laugh. There's someone around here doing heavy lifting, alright, but it's not Miller. The kind of work that pampered little clerk does, I'd be surprised if he's ever broken a nail, let alone broken a sweat. I'm just gearing myself up to start baiting him about that, when I notice his suit draped over the chair on his side of the room. I say _notice_ , rather than spot, because the first thing that hits me is the cloud of cologne hanging in the air around it. The suit smells like Miller's been rolling around in the stuff. And it's not his usual type, either, it's cheap and strong, like someone just dumped a tin of treacle into a vat of musk. That's interesting. It's not Miller's cologne, and it's not mine, and that means the golden boy's been getting up close and personal with someone new. Someone cheap and nasty. Someone like me. Now _that's_ worth baiting him about.

I settle down on the edge of his bed and wait for the water to go off like clockwork, and sure enough a couple of minutes later it does. And then Miller comes out of the bathroom, naked and damp enough that his skin glistens in the lamplight, and suddenly all the lines I've been gearing up to give him just aren't there anymore. I sit there like a fool for a few seconds, just looking at him, but when my eyes finally drift up to his face, the expression on it snaps me right out of that daze. He looks like he'd happily smother me with one of these cheap pillows.

"You're back, then." Miller says, and his voice is so clipped and hard that he must be an inch away from snapping.

"Yeah." I give him a shrug and a grin, watching that cold edge glinting in his eyes. "Lost track of time, you know how it is. Or maybe you don't. Even your pickups run to a strict timetable, don't they?"

Miller just looks at me, and turns away to the dresser. I guess he isn't planning on spending all night naked. Which is a shame, but then again, I'm not here for the view.

"You should ask for your money back," I say, leaning against it as he starts sorting through the drawers. I can see him tense up as soon as I start talking, so I keep going. Just a little more, and I might get what I want. "You're supposed to come home happier than when you went out, you know. Whoever got you drenched in that cheap cologne did half a job."

"Save it," he snaps. "I'm not in the mood."

"Yeah, and that's my point." I laugh, like I really am just ribbing him, like I don't mean every word. "Spending money on someone who doesn't get the job done, that's bad business, isn't it? You should get yourself a _real_ professional next time. You should–"

"I said, I'm not in the mood." Miller cuts me off and shoves me hard in the chest, harder than you'd think a guy like him could manage. Hard enough to push me back down onto the bed. Now, I could give Miller a pasting with one arm tied behind my back, we both know that. But right now I don't care about proving I could take him. Right now all I care about is the way he's looking at me, hard and cold like bronze, and the way those golden lips of his aren't smiling any more. He looks like he wants to put me in my place, alright, but it's more than that. The look in his eyes, that's more than just the usual frostiness. Something's really getting to him. Something that isn't me. I don’t like that one bit.

"Okay, sure," I say, getting to my feet and out of his way. I want to keep at him until he tells me what's bothering him so much, but if I push it right now I'll probably end up sleeping in the corridor. So I just keep my mouth shut and get ready for bed, and when Miller turns the light off before I've even finished getting undressed, I don't say a word. I just get into bed and lie there, listening to him breathing, trying to sort out everything that's rattling around in my head.

I don't even know what's upsetting him, but it feels like whatever it is, it's my problem to fix. Maybe it was my job to prevent it in the first place. Maybe I'm not pulling my weight. Five minutes ago I was baiting Miller about how he needs a real professional, but maybe _I'm_ the one doing half a job. Maybe I've been doing half a job all along. Half of me wants to shake Miller awake and ask him outright what he wants, what he needs me to do. But this job doesn't work like that, and that's what's really starting to eat at me. All my other jobs, I've been given orders and a deadline, and maybe I've improvised a bit once I was out there, but I've followed my instructions and wrapped it all up on schedule. But this, this is different. I don't even know what I'm here for. Whatever Miller needs, the boss said. But how do I know what he needs? How do I know if I'm doing enough? I feel like I don't know anything, and I can't stand it. That feeling needles me more than any smart-mouthed little punk ever could.

I turn over and close my eyes. It's stupid, but I wish I could turn the clock back a few hours, back to when the worst thing I had to worry about was keeping my hands off a rich boy who needs a good beating. A few months ago, the thought of Daniel would have kept me up all night, and I'd have driven myself half-mad trying to shake it off. Now I'm welcoming it with open arms. Now I'll happily let it fill my head. I'll spend all night thinking about that boy and what I'd like to do to him, if that's what it takes, because at least if I'm thinking about him, I'm not thinking about the job. I'm not thinking about Miller. Not one bit.


	5. Double Team

The first punch lands hard enough I almost feel it myself, and the next one comes straight after, right in the same spot. The guy in the chair's trying to swallow down his grunts of pain, but there's too much power behind the blond guy's fist to keep a lid on it for long. It's like watching someone hammering nails with a sledgehammer. Anyone'd be howling after a few goes under those fists. Not that it really matters. Down here in the basement, with that thick door between us and the shop upstairs, it wouldn't matter if the guy decided to shout himself hoarse. So there's no need to drown any noises out, but even so, Desmond's got music playing in the background like we're all down here for a cosy little party. Typical old-timer. I don't recognise the song, but it's slow and smooth, and if I was the one sitting in that chair, it'd be getting me hot and bothered before Desmond's boy had even laid a hand on me.

"Can you turn the music up?" the guy in the chair says, and even though he's slurring a bit now, every word is dripping with scorn. "My favourite part's coming right up and I don't want to miss it."

"Shut your mouth," the blond guy barks, giving him a swift backhand and then another straight after for good measure.

"Hey, you’re contradicting yourself. D'you want me to talk, or d'you want me to shut up?" the guy in the chair laughs. "Make up your mind, will you?"

"Don't get smart." The blond guy scowls like he wishes he could just snap the other guy's neck and be done with it, but right on cue he circles back around to how this all started. "Where is it?" he says, grabbing hold of the other guy's throat. " _Where is it_?"

The guy in the chair just laughs, and the blond guy starts whaling on him again, asking him the same question over and over in-between those sledgehammer punches. They must have been going round in circles for half an hour now, and the guy in the chair doesn't seem any closer to giving it up now than he was when he sat down. It's a good job that chair's a comfortable one. Though by the looks of things, he's a lot less comfortable with rope around him than I would be. That's the thing, he doesn't seem like he's getting off on it, not the way I would. I don't think he's even hard. But he keeps on taunting the blond guy like it's the most fun he's had all day, so I guess he must be getting something out of it. Makes me want to keep watching, just to see how far this wise guy's planning on pushing his luck. Makes me almost forget what I'm actually here for.

"Let's have it, then." Desmond says quietly, glancing across at me with a little smile. "You didn't come all the way down here to watch Alan in action."

"Maybe I did." I shrug. "Maybe I just felt like some company."

"Sure," the big guy laughs. "Or maybe you've had a falling out with your pal, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."

"It wasn't a falling out," I start saying, "if he'd had a falling out with me he'd _know_ about it, don’t you worry, I'd– he'd–" and then I swallow the rest of that sentence, because I don't think either of us wants to hear the end of it. So I just let it hang there unfinished, and I lean against the pillar next to Desmond, and I carry on pretending to watch Alan in silence.

"Alright," Desmond says after a minute. There's a little bit of a chuckle in his tone, but mainly it's something softer. It might even be sympathy. "What is it, then?"

"He's…" I start again, but when I try to put it into words I just keep seeing Miller's face in my mind, wearing that blank, polite expression like I might as well be a stranger, and the frustration wells up into a big, angry sigh before I can get another word out. "Oh, it's all a mess, I don't know."

Desmond doesn't say anything, he just makes out like he's busy watching Alan do his thing. Which is nice of him, because somehow it's easier to string a sentence together when he's not looking at me, and after a couple of minutes my head's clear enough to have another go.

"He's frozen me out," I say, keeping my eyes on the guy in the chair, on the way his head snaps back and forth as Alan works him over. "There's something getting to him, and he won't tell me what it is. Just keeps me busy with errands any stupid kid could do."

"I see," Desmond says. "What does he say when you ask him about it?"

"That there's nothing wrong. And then he sends me off on another one of those pointless errands, and tells me not to hurry on my way back."

"You let it go at that, do you?"

"No, I don't–" I start to say, planning on setting Desmond straight, but when I turn to look at him he's giving me this hard look, like I'm embarrassing myself. Like I'm not fooling anyone. "Well, yeah." I nod, looking back across at the guy in the chair.

Desmond nods too, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

"Where is it?" Alan says, loud enough now I reckon even that thick door probably can't be muffling it. "You're going to tell me where it is, or–"

"You know, I feel like I might be interested in talking," the guy in the chair says, looking right at Desmond like Alan isn't even there. "Only I've got this irritating buzzing sound in my ear, like a fly or something, and it's putting me right off."

"You–" Alan hisses, and he gives the chair a hard kick, knocking it and the wise guy over onto the floor hard enough I'm surprised neither of them breaks. "You're going to regret that, I'm going to–"

"Hey, you should tell your boy to be careful," the guy in the chair laughs, keeping his eyes fixed on Desmond. "That almost hurt."

When Desmond stops leaning against the pillar and steps forward, even I tense up, and I'm only watching. He puts a hand on Alan's shoulder, nice and friendly, and he doesn't have to say a word. Alan just moves back and stands at the edge of the room, like this is a practised move. I wonder how many times they've pulled this routine. I wonder if it _is_ a routine at all. Maybe Alan really does need reining in. Or maybe he's just the opening act.

"Now," Desmond says, putting the chair and the wise guy back upright again. "I think it's clear this isn't getting us anywhere."

"Yeah, that's right–" the guy starts, but Desmond's not having any of it.

"All we're doing is wasting time and bruising Alan's knuckles," he laughs, coming around behind the chair and putting both hands on the guy's shoulders. "Most people fold after a few minutes of Alan's attention, but you're not most people, are you? No, you're tougher than that."

"Sure I am," the guy says, but I can hear in his voice how much his confidence is slipping away. I don't blame him. Those big hands feel even bigger when they're holding you down.

"I've seen a few like you in my time. Tough nuts to crack, determined to make things worse for themselves, mouthing off right up til the end." Desmond chuckles, and I can see his hands tightening just slightly on the guy's shoulders. "Yeah, I've seen a few. You remember Harry Bull, don't you? You remember where they found him."

And suddenly the guy in the chair doesn't seem to feel like bantering any more. He just sits there silently, looking straight ahead, pale and blank-eyed. Like he's seen a ghost.

"And McFarlane, they never found him at all, did they?" Desmond says, all soft and wistful like he's talking about his old war buddies. "And then there was Happy Jones."

I glance across at Alan, and just like I thought, he's grinning from ear to ear. This must be his favourite part.

"My point is, it's not a matter of whether you'll fold or not," Desmond says, coming around to the front of the chair again. Then he brings the back of his hand down across the guy's face, just once, heavy and fast. "You'll fold. The only question is, what kind of a state will you be in when you do?"

And that's all it takes. The guy in the chair spills it right away, letting the address out in one big rush like he hasn't got a second to spare. I can't help laughing, and neither can Alan, and when I look across at him again he's smiling right at me. I guess I'm alright by him, now. Well, he might not be anywhere near Desmond's level, but he's not bad-looking, and he knows how to throw a punch. I'd say he's alright by me, too.

 

* * *

 

"All done for today, are we?" I lean against the edge of the desk, keeping my eyes on Desmond. "Or have you got some more lessons to give Junior here?"

"Junior?" Alan wheels around and glares at me. "Listen, buddy, you might be on loan, but you keep on like that and you'll be going home in pieces."

I believe him, too. If Desmond wasn't there holding his leash, I mean. I've been baiting Alan all afternoon while I trailed around after the two of them, throwing him as many pointed remarks as I could think of, and now he seems about ready to blow. As for Desmond, well, the big guy just smiles every time I run my mouth. But then, he's heard my spiel before. He knows what it means, and he knows what I'm after, even if Alan's a bit slow on the uptake.

"Don't get sore," I say, smirking up at Alan. He's nowhere near as tall as Desmond, but he's still a lot bigger than me, and I have to tilt my head right back to aim that smirk just right. "No shame in being new at this, everyone's got to start somewhere."

"You..." he says, grabbing hold of my shoulder. I guess I haven't needled him enough yet to earn a hand on the throat. "I ought to–"

"Yeah," I cut him off, letting that smirk spread into a grin. "You really ought to."

He looks round at Desmond, and when he clocks the smile on the big guy's face, you can almost hear the penny drop. "It's like that, is it?" he says, with a little laugh. "I was wondering why Desmond let you tag along all day."

I grin up at him and shrug. "Well, it wasn't so I could learn from a professional, was it?"

Alan's still smiling as he raises his fist, but before I get what I want, he stops dead and looks over his shoulder to Desmond again, like a dog waiting to be let off the leash.

"Go on," the big guy says. "But mind his face, he's got to work tomorrow."

Alan nods and brings his hand back down, and that obedience just makes me want to bait him harder. "That's right," I say, shrugging his other hand off my shoulder. "Do as you're told, Junior."

That name must really rankle, because as soon as it's left my lips, Alan swings his fist up into my stomach and knocks all the wind out of me. "Don't worry," he says, grabbing hold of my hair. "You won't have any bruises. Not from the neck up." Then his palm comes down across my face, sharp and fast, perfectly pitched to give me a red cheek but nothing more. Obedient, and skilled, too. No wonder Desmond keeps him around.

"Course not," I laugh, once I've got enough breath back to manage more than a wheeze. "Wouldn't want to spoil a face this pretty, would you, Junior?"

I get the back of his hand for that, and then he slings me into the middle of the room, tossing me around by the hair like it's no effort at all, like he's throwing away a cigarette butt. I stagger backward, clumsy enough I might as well be drunk, and I guess in a way I am. I've been slowly getting soaked all afternoon. I step back, trying to keep myself upright, but it turns out I don't have to worry about that, because before I know it I've got my back pressed up against Desmond's chest, and those broad hands are circling my arms, locking me in position like great big iron cuffs.

"What's the matter," I say, glancing back at the big guy. "Worried your boy can't handle me?"

Desmond just laughs and tightens his grip. I can feel his laughter rumbling in his chest as I lean back against him, and his hands are so tight around my arms that my biceps feel like every drop of pain is being wrung out of them. I'm going to be wearing Desmond's fingerprints tomorrow, and just the thought of that makes me shiver. The idea of those bruises winding around my arms like a sailor's tattoo, dark and blurry and tender enough that I can feel the echo of his hands every time I move, that's the kind of thought that gets me overheated without even trying. Then Alan comes up close, close enough I can feel him pressing hot and hard against me, and before I know what's hit me, his fist slams into my ribs hard enough to get me groaning and grinding against him like a dog in heat.

"Look at you," Desmond says, close to my ear. "You've been wanting this all day, haven't you?"

"Yeah," I murmur, pushing back against him. "This and a lot more."

I guess Alan likes the sound of that, because he gives me that sledgehammer fist right in the stomach again, and just as the blow hits, Desmond takes his hands off my arms and lets me drop to the floor. Perfect timing. They must have played this game before. So I'm smiling as I kneel there between them, with my cheeks stinging and my stomach burning, with my knees bruised and throbbing and my heartbeat pounding in my chest. It's been weeks since I had a proper working over. Weeks since I've been given what for by someone who really knew what he was doing. Now I've got two of those someones, and by the time I get out of here I'll be lucky if I can walk straight.

"It doesn't take much to get you on your knees, does it?" Desmond says, putting his hands on my shoulders, nice and heavy.

"Sure, but it takes a bit more to _keep_ me down." I shrug, smirking up at Alan. "What d'you reckon, Junior? Think you've got what it takes?"

He's as easy to bait as ever, and the minute the words are out of my mouth, Alan's hand closes around my throat nice and snug, just enough to start cutting off my air. Yeah, I reckon he's got what it takes, but I'm not going to let on, not just yet, so I just kneel there and keep that smirk on my face while he squeezes my throat in one hand and unfastens his fly with the other.

"Let's see if that mouth's good for anything besides backchat," he says, sliding his hand around to the back of my neck. A line like that shouldn't get to me, but as much as I'm enjoying baiting him, I can't resist a challenge. So I slide my lips down around his cock, and as soon as the head of it grazes the back of my throat, he breathes in sharp and deep enough to make me wonder if he's got a hair trigger to go along with that short fuse. Makes me want to finish him off too soon, just to see him lose it again. His hand tightens on the back of my neck, forcing me to move at his pace, and it's not a leisurely one, either. I guess he's got no more intention of taking his time than I have. So I go with it, letting him fuck my mouth however he wants, and every time he pushes me down I push myself just a little bit further, swallowing as much of his cock as I can, groaning deep in the back of my throat, as if I can't get enough.

"Pace yourself, Alan," Desmond says, like he knows just what I'm thinking. Then those heavy hands let go of my shoulders, and when I look up, the big guy's sitting down in the chair by the desk, watching me and Alan like we're a couple of new hires putting on a showcase. Knowing that Desmond's watching gets me about as hot and bothered as you'd expect, and maybe I'm just impatient to get on with the main event, but I can't help glancing over at him every so often as I'm working on Alan. Only it turns out Junior doesn't appreciate me getting distracted any more than he appreciates my wisecracks, and the next thing I know, he's yanking my head back hard like he's trying to rip my hair right out.

"Keep your eyes up here," he says, twisting his hand in my hair tight enough to make my eyes water.

"Or what?" I grin up at him, nice and casual, and I flick my tongue out across his cock, just to underline my point. "What's the matter, Junior, don't you know how to share?"

"Shut your mouth," he barks, and brings his palm down hard across my cheek.

"You're contradicting yourself, just like before," I laugh. "D'you want me to shut it, or open up? Make up your mind, Junior."

This time he shoves me down hard enough to get me choking and coughing right from the start, and that only gets him hotter and harder. I can feel the groans humming through his body as he fucks my mouth, I can hear how much he's enjoying it every time my throat shudders and tightens around him, I can feel how close he's getting, how much closer and closer he slips with every thrust he gives me, and now it won't be long at all. Now I've almost got him where I want him.

"Alan," the big guy says sharply. "Back off and cool down."

Alan does as he's told and pulls out, no complaints and no arguments. And I don't blame him, either, but I'm not going to pass up an opportunity like that. "Yeah, Junior, cool your jets," I laugh, grinning up at him as soon as his cock's out of my mouth. "Got no use for you if you're that easy to–"

"You," Desmond interrupts, and his voice shuts me up as firmly as if he'd clamped a hand over my mouth. "Come here." And he sounds like he's about as pleased with me as he is with Junior, so I start to get to my feet, but Desmond shakes his head. "I didn't say to get up."

Which is a nice surprise, because I didn't think the big guy had that kind of a mean streak. Maybe having Alan around wears on his patience, or maybe he was just in an easy-going mood last time, I don't know. But either way, if he wants me on my knees, I'm not going to argue. I just do as I'm told and crawl over to him, until I'm kneeling between his legs like a dog waiting for a treat.

"You going to show him how it's done, old man?"

"He's not the only one who needs teaching a lesson," he says, grabbing hold of my hair with one hand and moving the other down to his fly. He takes his time undoing each one of those buttons, holding me back by the hair while I watch. I pull against his grip, but there's no escaping that hand. It might as well be a leash around my neck, and when he rubs the tip of his cock against my lips, I can't get more than the briefest little taste of him. That just drives me crazy, so I guess he's got me pegged. I try to strain forward, but I've got no chance, and all I can do is kneel there and let him taunt me. Well, not quite all. I've got my hands free, after all, and no-one's ordered me not to, so I reach down start unfastening my trousers. I figure I might as well entertain myself, if he's going to make me wait. Except the big guy's got other ideas.

"Hands behind your back," he says, giving my hair a tug just to make sure I'm paying attention.

I can't help laughing. "Where they can't cause trouble?"

"That's right." Desmond leans over to open the desk drawer, takes out something silver and tosses it across to Alan. "Cuff him."

"Gladly," Alan says, and he grabs hold of my wrists tight enough to make me wince. Once the cuffs are on, he gives the chain between them a hard yank, as if there's any doubt whether they'll hold. "Yeah, you're not going anywhere, you little punk."

And he's right, but that doesn't stop me struggling. I tug against the chain just to feel the cuffs biting into my skin, and between the tightness and the coldness of them I'm more fired up now than ever. The more restrained I am the more I want it, and I guess that must be obvious to anyone who's paying attention, because Desmond seems to know how to push my buttons without even trying. He's got me worked up to the verge of begging, and he's barely lifted a finger. When he pushes my head down and grinds my face against the shaft of his cock, I can't resist darting my tongue out, trying to lick at him each time he's in reach, and that just makes him laugh.

"Desperate for it, aren't you?" he says, rubbing the tip of his cock across my lips. I'm past the point of backchat now, so I try to nod and say 'Yes', but all that comes out is a pathetic, hungry groan. Desmond just chuckles and keeps on teasing me, holding me in place and keeping his cock just out of reach, until I'm biting my lip to keep from begging. When he finally slides the first few inches into my mouth, when my lips are stretched wide around his shaft and my throat is straining to take him, I'm so grateful that another one of those groans wells up inside me, and this one's even more pathetic than the last. The way his hand cups the back of my neck, the way he moves my head up and down so slow and steady, the taste of his skin and the heat of him filling my throat, all of it gets me so worked up that if my mouth wasn't full I'd be begging and pleading like my life depended on it. Maybe I was drunk on anticipation before, but now I'm soaked right through.

"Here, Alan," Desmond says, and I can hear that desk drawer opening and closing again as he talks. "Make yourself useful."

I look up just in time to see him throwing a bottle of lube across to Junior, and the thought of being fucked makes me moan loud enough to get both of them chuckling. Desmond keeps me in place while Alan gets to work, holding me down with a hand on the back of my head, not letting up for a minute. And that's probably for the best, because if I didn't have my mouth full I'd be baiting Alan for all I was worth, telling him to hurry up and fuck me, telling him not to be so delicate about warming me up, scoffing at each one of those slow little strokes of his fingers inside me. As it is, I have to take it on his schedule, the one he's probably had beaten into him personally by the big guy.

"Alright, give it to him," Desmond says, and as soon as he's given the word, I can feel Junior lining himself up behind me, smooth and hard and hot enough to get me squirming before he's even pushed forward an inch. He holds my hip in one hand, keeping me fixed in place as he slides his cock into my ass, slow and smooth. I guess Alan learned his lesson when the big guy told him off before, because this time he's in no rush. This time he gives it to me just right, grinding into me in shallow little thrusts until I'm opened up enough to really take it, and then when he ramps up his pace he hits just the right angle, just the right tempo, and now I feel like I'm losing my mind. I haven't been fucked like this for weeks, not since me and Miller came down here, and now getting it at both ends is overheating me so much I can't help pulling against the cuffs, like somehow they'll come lose and I'll be able to slip a hand down and take care of myself.

"That's right," Desmond says, low and rough, and I don't know whether he's talking to me or Junior, but either way it seems to work like a charm on both of us. Alan slams into me harder now, faster and deeper, and every bit of me he touches feels like it's on fire. Then he reaches down underneath me and takes hold of my cock, and that fire blazes up all around me, and I'm squirming and thrusting into his hand desperately enough that I bet Junior'd be laughing if he wasn't so busy groaning and cursing me under his breath. It's a race now, and we both know it. And I might be cuffed and on my knees, I might be getting reamed and choked and filled up with enough cock to leave me raw and bruised, but if it's coming down to a fight between me and Alan there's no way I'm going to lose. He's going over the edge first, if I have to break myself getting him there.

So I throw myself into it, pushing against him, squirming and moaning and tensing around him, grinding my ass back against his hips like I can't stand to let go of his cock for even a second, and when he grabs hold of the cuffs with his free hand I curl my fingers up to claw at him, scratching as much of his wrist and palm as I can reach. I give it everything I've got, everything I can do with my hands bound and my mouth full, and it's worth the effort. Those thrusts just get sharper and shorter, more and more brutal as I work on him, and when Alan yanks on the cuffs hard enough to make me yelp, I know I've won.

"Damn it, you cheap little punk," he hisses, and that's it, I can't hold off any more. I'm right behind him, thrusting into his fist, bucking and twisting and tugging at the cuffs hard enough to make my wrists burn, and when it's finally over I feel like I spent all my energy just getting across the finish line. But spent or not, I've still a job to finish, and Desmond makes sure I know it. His grip on my hair tightens up, and he holds me in place like a vice while he fucks my throat. With the force he puts into it, the way he slams up into my mouth just as hard as he's pushing my head down, the way he keeps at it relentlessly until my lips are raw and my chin is slick with spit, it takes all my concentration to keep from choking. I look up at him as he starts to come, just a quick glance on one of the upstrokes just before he pushes me back down, but the look in his eyes is enough that even a second of it gives me the shivers. There's satisfaction in there, sure, but more than that, there's a kind of shadowy, fiery hunger in his eyes, like right now I'm nothing but a toy to him, nothing but a piece of meat to use however he wants, to be thrown away as soon as I'm used up. And I might be spent, but it still drives a little moan from me, because no amount of exhaustion could stop a look like that piercing me right through. I close my eyes as those big hands shove me down, as he holds my head still and lets loose, until my mouth is full of his come and my head is swimming with the taste and the smell of him, until I feel like I'm drowning in it. When he finally lets go of me, I lean back and look up at him, making sure he's watching as I swallow. Then I give him the best smirk I can manage with lips this sore.

"So," I say, darting my tongue out to lick a stray trickle of come from the corner of my mouth. "I'd say your boy passed with flying colours, what d'you reckon?"

Desmond just laughs, and talks to Alan right over my head, like I'm not even there. "Get him cleaned up and take him back to his hotel," the big guy says, while Junior gets busy unlocking the cuffs. "He's got some business to take care of."

 

* * *

 

"Anytime you need another lesson, feel free to drop by." Alan says, once I'm out of the car.

"Sure, Junior." I grin at him, and slam the door. "But next time you'll have to pay tuition fees."

I'm still grinning to myself as I make my way into the hotel, but by the time I get into the lift, that grin's turned into a tight little smile, and I've got a matching set of tense shoulders to go with it. Miller'll be up there, working through the ledgers on that rickety desk in the corner, and he'll be ready to give me the brush off as soon as I come through the door. Well, I'm not going to let him freeze me out. Not this time. We're going to have a conversation, and nothing's going to get in the way. This time he's going to spill it.


	6. Back Office

The ledger flies past my face close enough I feel the breeze as it goes by, and when it hits the wall with a bang, Miller grimaces like he's surprised himself. Maybe he has, but not half as much as he's surprising me.

"That could have hit me, you know." I say, picking the ledger up off the floor. "If I'd been a couple of seconds earlier. You need to work on your timing."

"Don't start." Miller gets up and comes around from behind the desk. The way he moves, you can see how much tension he's got wound up inside him. He moves like he's trying to stop himself throttling somebody. And that's fine, that's how I need him. The closer he is to snapping, the more of a chance I've got of chipping my way through that big wall he's put up between us.

"Here," I say, tossing the ledger across to him. "Try something heavier next time. A vase or a bottle, that kind of thing. Much more satisfying if you throw something that breaks."

Miller turns away, and runs his hand through his hair, messing up that perfect parting he'll have spent ten minutes getting right this morning. "Why don't you go out? Go on, go to one of those dives you like, I don't need you for anything else tonight."

"Oh no," I laugh, and I figure since I'm overstepping lines today I might as well go big, so I grab his shoulder and spin him around. "That's where you're wrong. You need me tonight, Miller, you just won't admit it."

He looks at me for a moment, just looks at me, and it's like I can see all the coldness I usually get from the boss and all the fury I get from Joe, swirling around and fighting it out in Miller's eyes. It's frightening, and worrying, and all kinds of exciting, but most of all it's a big flashing green light telling me to keep on going.

"I told you to go out." he says, grabbing hold of my wrist. "I told you–"

"Yeah, and d'you know what else you told me? On the train coming down here, you told me you needed someone you could trust. Someone reliable. So how about relying on me? How about trusting me? Or am I just here for show?"

"You–" he starts, but he cuts himself off and shakes his head. Then he gets his wallet out and starts counting out a few notes. "Here, take this and go. Just go. Please."

And as he holds the money out toward me, I can see that mask of niceness coming together again on his face, drying and setting like a fresh coat of paint. Well, I'm not having it. I'm not letting him close the door again now I've pried it open, and it'll take more than a handful of cash to distract me.

"No." I fold my arms, and leave the money in his hand, where it can't get in the way. "No deal."

"Why can't you just do as you're told?" Miller throws the money down onto the bed, and then the wallet, and he looks at me like he's considering throwing me down there too. "Why've you got to pick now, of all times, to start acting up?"

"You know, you're right. I should've done this a week ago, when all this started." I stand my ground and stare him down. I'm not getting distracted by money, and I'm not getting distracted by the thought of him throwing me around, either. "I should've stood up to you right from the start."

" _Stood up to me_? Is that what you think you're doing?"

"Yeah, and you know what else? If I'd said this a week ago, whatever's eating you would be done and dusted by now."

"You don't know what you're–"

"I don't know what I'm talking about? Yeah, and why's that? Because you won't tell me anything. Because you don't trust me. Because even though the boss sent me to help you, you treat me like I'm just here for decoration. Well, you can freeze me out all you like, but _you're_ the one who's going to have to explain yourself to the boss, not me." I lean over to the phone on the table, pick up the receiver and hold it out to Miller. "In fact, why don't you call him up right now and tell him you don't want my help? Go on, ring the boss and tell him he was wrong to send me down here, tell him you don't feel like following his orders, and while you're at it you can tell him how well you're handling things on your own, can't you?"

Miller looks at me silently, eyes wide and panicked. He knows deep down that I'm right, and he doesn't seem to like that one bit. He frowns at me like all this is _my_ fault, glares at me hard and cold enough that for a minute I wonder if I've really gone too far. Then something seems to shift, like a switch inside him just got flipped. He's still looking at me, still staring at me like he'd enjoy throttling me, but now I can feel that wall between us starting to crack. "Alright," he says, sitting down on the bed. "Alright, sit down. I'll tell you what's going on, but it's complicated. It's going to take a lot of telling."

"Take as long as you need," I say, sitting down next to him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He wasn't kidding about it being complicated, either. He talks for an hour or so, and about half of it goes straight over my head, but I get the gist of it. The casino isn't underperforming, it's leaking money. Someone's skimming cream off the top, but he doesn't know who. All Miller knows is that whatever changes he makes, the profits are always less than you'd expect. It's as if every night's takings is having a slice chopped off before it gets into the ledgers, and those slices are always the same size, always cut the same way. Miller tries to explain how he knows there's something wrong with the figures, but I don't catch it, even when he diagrams it for me. I'm too busy thinking about the likely candidates he's got picked out. The scam's being run out of the cash office, he's sure of that, and that means it's either the bookkeeper or someone in the counting room. And they might be stuffy back-office types, but they're still guys with weak spots, and that makes them _my_ department.

"Okay," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. "You want to know who's behind it, I'll find out. I'll get you what you need, Miller, don't worry."

I'm still half-expecting him to shrug that off, but he leaves my hand where it is. "Alright," he says, with the first real smile I've seen on his lips for days. "But I can't promise I won't worry."

 

* * *

 

The bartender scoffs. "You're getting paid enough to buy yourself whatever company you fancy, aren't you? Why d'you want to bother with what's on offer in here?"

"Variety," I say, shrugging. "It's the spice of life, you know."

"Yeah, and you like yours extra spicy, don't you?" He tops up my drink and shakes his head. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

"So, who's my best bet?"

He thinks for a minute, and then points across the floor to one of the card tables. "That croupier with the red hair, the stocky one."

"Oh, him…" I lean my chin on my hand, and make like I'm considering the idea. "Not bad, but a bit on the rough side. What about the back-office, is there anything worth chasing in there? I'm in the mood for one of those flimsy clerical types."

"Ah, you want that office junior from the counting room, then." The bartender laughs. "The short one, with the glasses. He'll talk your ear off complaining about the job, but he goes like the clappers."

"Perfect," I say, with a big hungry grin, as if it's the last bit that's really got me interested.

"Only don't get him drunk," the bartender says, "unless you want to spend all night listening to him whinge about his manager."

"I could tell him a few stories about bad management myself." I say, setting my glass down. This office junior sounds like just the trick. If there's something going on in the counting room, this boy's going to give me the dirt on it, and I don't care how many sob stories I have to listen to first.

 

* * *

 

I'm waiting in the corridor at five o'clock, watching the clerks filing past and clocking out, wondering what it feels like. What's it like to knock off after a shift, to go home and _really_ be off duty? The only work I've ever done is _this_ kind, the kind where it's never really over, where you're always either on the end of someone's leash or looking for the next one to grab onto. The kind where you're property, where you're one of your boss's tools, and you get picked up and put down whenever it suits him, night or day. Deep down maybe I envy these clerks. I can't help wondering what it's like to have a separate life away from what you do for money. And then I think about how they take orders from guys I wouldn't look twice at, about how many hours they spend doing the kind of boring work I'd pay to get out of, and suddenly it doesn't sound all that interesting after all.

So by the time the boy I want comes out of the counting room, sauntering along like he's in no hurry at all, I'm bored out of my mind and more than ready to go. Given how much he's supposed to hate this place, I'm surprised he's not running at full pelt, but he clocks out slow enough you'd think he didn't have a home to go to. It's only when he turns around and spots me staring at him that he puts on a bit of speed.

"You waiting for someone?" he says, walking right up to me with a smile. He's got guts, I'll say that for him. I've seen guys older and rougher than him make a move with half the confidence and twice the beating around the bush.

I push myself up from the wall, and match his smile with one of my own, nice and big and sharp. "Would you believe me if I said I was waiting for you?"

"Sure I would," he laughs. "That's the benefit of having a reputation like mine. You guys come right to me, I don't even have to bother going out on the floor."

"Why waste the time, right?" I laugh with him, and put one hand on the small of his back. "D'you bother with going for drinks, or is that too slow for you?"

He lets my hand stay where it is, and shrugs. "It's fast enough, if you're buying."

And you know, I think I'd be buying even if it wasn't for a job. He might be just a pencil pusher, but there's something about him that makes broad daylight in a back-office feel like midnight in a cheap club. He's nice-looking, sure, but it's not the dark hair and the pretty face that gets me. It's the sparkle in his eyes, and the way he smiles like he's already planning exactly how he'd like this to go down. He's as neat and buttoned-up as any of the other clerks that came out of that door, but the way he moves, he might as well already be naked. The way he laughs, the way his voice drips with pleasure even now, I can't help thinking about how he'll sound moaning underneath me. It's going to be hard to keep my mind on the job. But I will. This is my sort of work, and I'm going to show Miller I can get the job done.

So I don't waste any time getting the office junior to the nearest bar, and he doesn't waste any time once we're there. He downs his first drink in one and gets started on the second before I've even touched mine, which is the perfect cue.

"Tough day at work?" I say, gesturing at the empty glass.

"Oh, don't get me started," the boy laughs, and that's all it takes. That bartender wasn't lying when he said this kid could talk your ear off, and most of it isn't worth a thing to me, but I sit there anyway, smiling and nodding and buying fresh rounds whenever that loose tongue of his gets dry. I hear all about the feuds between this clerk and that, about cliques and back-stabbing and whisper campaigns, about who's picked him up and who's turned him down, but it's only after half a dozen or so drinks that I really start getting what I came for.

"And you should _see_ how the supervisor treats us," the boy says, grimacing. "Don't know who he thinks he is."

"That bad?" I say, slipping my arm around his waist. He seems to like that, but he doesn't let it distract him. He just smiles and carries on telling me what a pompous idiot his boss is, giving me every detail I want and then some.

"And don't think I haven't noticed how _someone_ 's had a pay rise under the table…" He knocks back his drink and shakes his head. "We're still on the same measly wages we were hired on last year, me and the clerks, but _he's_ driving a new car and swanning around in suits that'd cost me half a year's pay!"

"Under the table?" I pull him a little bit closer, making like I'm trying to soothe him, trying not to look like I've just struck gold. "And you guys haven't seen a penny?"

"Course not," the boy scoffs, and he lays his head on my shoulder like the injustice of it all's too much for him. "I think he'd hold it back even if we _were_ given a pay rise. He hates us, he does. Hates _me_ , anyway."

"You?"

"He's always shouting at me, always acting like a tough guy, as if any of us buy that for a second," he says, with a bitter little laugh. "Like that time they were putting the new counting machines in. He ordered me out of the room like I was trespassing! And not just me, the clerks too. Kept us all out until the workmen were gone. He acts like he owns the place. I don't know _who_ he thinks he is."

I get the feeling I'm about to hear an encore, but it doesn't matter. I've heard enough now, more than enough. A middle manager suddenly swimming in cash, and machines no-one's allowed to see being installed – even I can see what's going on.

"He's an idiot, that's what he is," I say, taking the drink out of the boy's hand before he can get any further down it. "How about I take your mind off all that?"

"Sure," he grins up at me, and gets to his feet unsteadily enough that I have to grab onto him to keep him upright. "Thought you'd never ask."

He perks up even more once we're in the cab, and I've barely gotten his address out of him before he's draped all over me, kissing me hard and grinding against me like he can't wait another second. I hold onto him nice and firm, one hand on the back of his neck and one on his waist, and that just seems to get him even hungrier for it.

"Tighter," he says, soft and hot against my neck. "Like I can't get away…"

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I keep that hold of him all the way back to his place, gripping his wrist tightly as he leads me up the stairs to his flat, and as soon as the door's closed behind us, I shove him up against the wall and pin him there, just holding him in place as he groans and grinds up against my leg. I wanted to keep him there for a while, to tease him a bit, but the way he looks up at me with those hazy, dark eyes and those wet, parted lips, I can't resist. I kiss him as hard and rough as he kissed me in the cab, and the minute I let go of his wrists, those eager hands start pulling my suit off like he doesn't care if he rips it to shreds. He isn't any more delicate with his own clothes either, and the whole lot ends up in a heap on the floor beside us, tangled up about as tight as we are. I want to stand back and get a good look at him, but he's having none of that. He takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the coffee table, and then those lithe arms wrap around my neck, tight and desperate, and he pulls me down into another kiss that I couldn't resist even if I tried.

So I can't look him over, but I can feel everything I wanted to let my eyes run over, and that's not a bad compromise. His skin's so hot against mine, smooth and soft like you'd expect an office boy to be, no callouses, no scars, not even the scrape of stubble. He's pristine, on the outside at least. And he might be the soft clerical type, but he's no shrinking violet. The way his hands stroke all over me, the way he grinds against my thigh, the way his tongue slides against mine, hot and quick and deep, it's like this can't go fast enough for him. I let him pull me back toward the bed, let him push me down onto it, and before I know it he's leaning across me and tipping out a handful of lube that I didn't even see him pick up. His fingers slide around my cock, slicking enough of the stuff across me to keep me going for hours, but it's not going to take hours. The way he's going I'll be lucky if it takes minutes. I should slow him down, but when he gets astride me and sinks down onto my cock, when he smiles down at me and gives one of those long, soft moans, all I can do is lay back and let him work. He rides me in short little strokes, rocking his hips back and forth, murmuring breathy little words I can't catch. He's barely been at it a minute before he slides a hand down to start taking care of himself, and as soon as his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, those murmurs get kicked up a notch.

"Just right," he groans, grinding down against me nice and hard, like he doesn't care if we both go over the edge right now. "Like that, just like that…"

Which would be a flattering thing to hear, if I was actually running this show. But I'm not, and I reckon it's about time I took the reins. I grab his wrists again and yank his hands away, holding them by his sides where they can't cause any trouble, and that just seems to turn his crank harder.

"Tighter," he says again, only now he's not whispering, now he's groaning the word out like I've pushed just the right button.

"Like you can't get away, right?" I pull him down toward me and roll the both of us over until he's pinned underneath me, and just like I thought, he goes with it as eager as ever.

"Just right," he says, tugging against the grip I've got on his wrists. "Don't stop, don't let go, I need–" He cuts himself off with a groan as I start to move inside him again, and I can't help laughing.

"Oh, I know what you need, alright," I say, picking up my pace a bit. He wants it fast and mean, that's exactly what he'll get, only it'll be on _my_ schedule. I give it to him deep and hard, hammering into him like I'm trying to break that flimsy clerical frame of his in two, and when I find the right angle to get him really squirming against me, I ramp up the pace again just to hear him groan, just to watch his face as he takes it. He looks drunker now than he did an hour ago, like he's soaked right through and still thirsty, and the way he arches up underneath me, the way he moans and asks for more even as he's pulling against my grip, I'm starting to feel like I got drenched too. Yeah, I'm _really_ running the show now. Sure I am, if you don't count the way this kid can pull my strings with one look from those big dark eyes.

"Harder," he groans, and when I pull out and flip him over, he gets into position like it's the best idea he's heard all day. I don't even have to pull him back against me. The minute my hands grab his hips, he backs up eagerly onto my cock and doesn't stop until he's taken every inch of it. Even then he doesn't stop moving, squirming, wriggling like he can't keep still, so that I barely have to move at all. It takes a hand in his hair and one of those thin arms twisted up behind his back before he'll hold still and let me fuck him.

"Can't get away now, can you?" I say, slamming into him nice and deep, hard enough to get the cheap little bed creaking underneath us.

"Not even if I wanted to," he moans into the pillow, and that busy little hand of his slips down to his cock again, only this time I don't swat it aside. This time I want to see just how much he's enjoying himself, and he gives me the show I'm after in spades, squirming and groaning and murmuring little pleas the whole time. I can feel him tightening, shaking underneath me, I can see his muscles tensing as he gets close, and I'm tempted to hold him back, to wrench that other arm up behind his back with the first, to keep him right at the edge all night, to drive him mad and make him beg, but I guess I'm not mean enough for that, not by half. I let him go for it, holding him down as tight as I can while he comes, and it's only after he's finished that my nasty streak really kicks in. I grab hold of his free hand and pin it up with the other one, rough and tight, and this time when I give it to him, it's all for me. The pace, the angle, the rhythm, everything's just for me, and all he can do is kneel there and take it. I might be a soft touch for boys like him, but I know how to use a spent one. I've learned that first-hand. So I pin him down and fuck him as rough and nasty as I can, shoving that pretty face into the pillow and reaming that soft little ass with all the cruelty I've ever had thrown at me, and it doesn't take me long at all. With him wincing and trembling underneath me, how could it? I come as fast as he did, slamming into him deep and hard as I let loose, and when I'm done I'm out of breath and shaking as much as he is.

"You can stay, if you like," he says, after I've gotten up off the bed and started picking up my clothes.

"I would," I say, not even lying, "only I need to get going before I miss the start of my shift."

"Night-shift?" He stretches out on the bed, watching me through half-closed eyes. "Rather you than me."

"The things we do for money, eh?"

It's tempting to stay, to see if he'll be ready to go again as quick as I was at his age, but I know better. I get dressed and get out of there as fast as I can, and twenty minutes later I'm heading up the stairs to see Miller, gearing myself up to tell him what I know. I said I'd get the information he needed, and I meant it. When I say I'll deliver the goods, I follow through, and now Miller's going to have to admit it. Now he's going to have to trust me. Now we'll finally be on the same team.


	7. Getaway

"It's a start," he says, and maybe those words aren't much, but they're the best thing I've had out of Miller for days, and they're enough to plaster a big stupid grin all over my face. He spots that right away, and I must look like a real fool, because he just smiles at me like he's watching a dog doing tricks.

"What's next?" I say, picking one of the paperweights up off the desk and toying with it, just to have something to look at that isn't him.

"Tomorrow, keep working on the cash office staff. Find out who else is involved." He stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders, nice and firm. "Right now, we're going back to the hotel."

And all of a sudden it's like I'm not spent at all.

I follow him out of the office and down through the casino, through the smoke and the crowds, and every step I take gets me more and more worked up. It's a good job the hotel's close enough to walk, because if we were in a cab right now, I'd be draped all over Miller about as desperate as that office junior was draped all over me a few hours ago. Instead I'm walking alongside him, maybe half a step behind, trying to play it cool. I'm talking, too, rambling about some story I read in the paper, because every time I stop talking the silence seems to flood in around us and then all I can think about is how much I want this. Miller's smiling and nodding throughout the lot of it, humouring me, letting me ramble as much as I need to. My head's full of the thought of him, and no matter how much I talk, I can't stop planning how I want this to go. I run through scenario after scenario, letting them play out like films in my mind, watching all the different ways I could finally get what I want.

Then two guys step out of the alley, about as subtle as if they'd been announced with a fanfare, and I have to put my daydreaming on hold.

"You should be careful what you go sniffing round," the guy nearest me says, smacking the blackjack in his hand against his palm.

"Did you practice that line in the mirror before you set off?" I sneer, squaring off against him. He's barely any bigger than me, and the way he holds that sap, it's like it's his first day on the job. "Your delivery needs some work."

The guy with the blackjack just scowls at me, and gives his palm another whack with the end of it, as if it's going to be any more convincing this time. The other guy, the one nearest Miller, he doesn't say anything at all. He just does this gormless little laugh, like he thinks he's got an easy job, and then he lunges forward, and all of a sudden there's a knife in his hand, and I can see it swinging out toward Miller, and then the next thing I know, I'm between the two of them and my arm is screaming and burning like it's on fire.

Laughing guy isn't laughing now, and he's laughing even less when I swing my good arm up and sock him right in the face. I guess he wasn't expecting us to be anything but a pair of pushovers. He staggers back, and I take the chance to look round at Miller, only Miller's not where he should be. He's darting toward the other guy, with his own knife out, and a look in his eyes like he's planning on cutting this idiot wide open. Maybe he just doesn't like seeing amateurs at work. He gets in under the other guy's guard before I can even shout out to be careful, and from the squeal the guy gives, I'd say Miller hit his mark good and hard.

I open my mouth to tell Miller we need to get out of here, but I only get the first couple of words out, before the laughing guy barrels toward me, like he's forgotten all about Miller and now that knife's got my name on it. I haven't got time to dodge, so I do the only thing I can think of, and swing my fist up into his face. He stumbles back again, only this time it sticks, this time he topples over and hits his head on the way down with a nasty loud crack, and then I'm standing there staring down at him, watching him not moving, listening to the other guy's footsteps clattering away up the alley.

"The other one–" Miller starts to say, before he runs out of breath.

"Had second thoughts, did he?" I try to laugh, but what comes out isn't much more than a wheezing cough.

"That one," Miller says, pointing at the guy on the floor.

"Lucky punch," I say, holding my good hand up.

"Very lucky." Miller runs his hand through his hair and gives a great big sigh as he reaches down to pick up the other guy's knife in his handkerchief, but when he looks up at me, he's got a smile on his face big and broad enough to make me forget all about my arm. "I suppose this means we're on the right track."

"Yeah, but whoever sent those two isn't going to send amateurs next time."

"There won't be a next time," Miller says, pocketing the knife and putting his hand on my shoulder. "We're going to see Mr Nash right now. This is too big for us to resolve on our own."

"Oh yeah? You've changed your tune." I can't help laughing, and lucky for me, Miller laughs too.

"I suppose I have."

"Funny," I say, looking down at the dark stain spreading out across the left arm of my jacket. "I thought the first guy who got my blood on him down here'd be you."

Miller just smiles at me and puts his hand on my back. We make our way out of the alley nice and slow, like we were just down there getting friendly and now we're taking a leisurely stroll back into town. We let a couple of streets go by like that, streets that feel about ten miles long, before Miller finally decides it's safe to flag down a taxi. I sit down in the back where he puts me, and I guess he must have picked a good quality cab, because the seat feels like a feather bed, and all of a sudden I don't feel like ever getting out of it. My legs feel heavy, my head feels like it's made of lead, and the only thing keeping me awake is the way my arm keeps lighting up with pain every time my heart beats.

By the time we get out of the taxi, it's throbbing bad enough I can't think about anything else, so I just follow Miller and stand there quietly while he rings the doorbell. The bell sounds too loud, loud enough to make my head spin. A couple of minutes pass that feel like hours, and then finally that big door swings open, and the light from inside makes my eyes hurt, and there's Desmond in his dressing gown and fancy pyjamas, looking about as impressed with us as you'd expect this time of night.

"I'm sorry to disturb you and Mr Nash so late," Miller says, perfectly smooth and calm. "But there's been a development that can't wait until tomorrow."

Desmond looks at Miller, then at me, and then down at the blood on my jacket. "So I see," he says, standing back to let us in. "Alright, go and wait in the lounge."

When Mr Nash makes his entrance, I can't help laughing to myself. Here I am in a fancy house, the middle of the night, with a couple of rich old guys in silk dressing gowns and a partner who knows as well as I do how to handle them. A setup like this should have me overheated and desperate to run my mouth. Instead, I'm standing here quietly and watching the three of them, like I'm not here at all. Like I'm just dreaming it, just watching it all play out. I watch Nash sit down in one of the big armchairs. I watch Desmond bending down to light the old man's cigar, quick like clockwork, just like me or Joe would. I watch Miller sit down across from Nash. I listen to him start explaining everything to the old man, and without thinking I go to sit down next to him, but Desmond hooks one of those big hands under my good arm and pulls me away before I get halfway down.

"Not there, you'll get blood on the sofa," he says, hauling me across to the desk at other side of the room. "Sit there, and keep still."

I haven't got the energy to talk back, so I do as I'm told and sit down on one of the fancy wooden chairs, while Desmond goes through to the next room. When he comes back, he's got one of those little first aid kits in his hand, and a look on his face that's about fifty-percent concern and fifty-percent just wanting to smack me.

"Take your–"

"Shirt off, yeah, I know." I say, giving him the best grin I can manage. I hold it, too, all the way until I've peeled the sleeve of the shirt away from my arm, and I don't even flinch until the swab touches me.

"You should have asked for help earlier, you know." Desmond says, quiet enough I don't reckon Miller or Nash could hear him. "Both of you."

"Yeah," I say, and then he touches the wound again and the rest of that sentence gets swallowed up by a big hiss of pain I have to clench my teeth to stifle. But I do know. I think we both know, now.

"Brace yourself," Desmond says, with the kind of smile that gives me the shivers, even now, even with my head spinning and my arm on fire. "And hold still, or you'll only make it worse for yourself."

 

* * *

 

The breeze is cold enough out here on the platform that I have to pull my collar up against my neck, and even then it still gets to me, like it's blowing straight through to my bones. I didn't think it ever got this cold down here, but I guess they've got bitter autumn nights even down south. It reminds me of all the hours I've spent shivering outside on a job, keeping myself warm thinking about getting what's coming to me. It reminds me of the way the boss'll keep me waiting outside the door, or out on that balcony, just to make it clear that I get to come inside when he says and not before. It reminds me of home, of being where I belong. Right now I'd _walk_ home if I had to.

I can see the lights in the distance, twinkling like clumps of glitter. Maybe one of those lights is the street we stayed on. Maybe one's the casino. There's so many of them, I feel like I could have spent a lifetime down there without running out of trouble to get into. But _this_ trouble, I'm glad to be out of. I don't want to see the way this wraps up, because it's not going to be pretty, I can tell you that for sure. The way Desmond gave the order to Alan, the look in his eyes, the way he listed out a dozen guys to bring down to the casino, I know exactly how it'd go, and I don't want that kind of scene etching into my mind. I don't want it etching into Miller's, either. Right now I'd walk home, and I'd drag the golden boy home with me, if I had to.

"You weren't tempted to stay?" I say, glancing across at Miller, as casual as I can manage. "Not even for a couple of weeks, like the old guy said?"

"No," he says, with a little smile, like I've said something ridiculous. "Were you?"

"Course," I laugh, lying through my teeth. "An offer like that, who wouldn't want to stay?"

But Miller can see right through me, and that smile just gets brighter and broader. "As far as I'm concerned, the sooner we head home the better."

The way he says 'we', and the way he says 'home', it makes me feel all kinds of things I can't quite put into words. Things I can't put my finger on. So I roll my eyes and scoff. "Eager to get back to a nice, quiet life, are you?"

Miller looks at me, steady and cool, and I can see in his eyes that he's caught what I threw him. He caught it, he's got hold of it in both hands, and he's not going to let it go. "Oh," he says, "I'm not expecting a quiet life, not with you around."

"You sound tired," I say, leaning back against the wall, letting my lips curl into a smirk. "Maybe you should ask the boss to send you on another holiday."

Miller comes up close, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can feel every inch of height he's got on me. "You…" he says, quiet and cold. "You never stop, do you?"

"Sure I do." I laugh, staring up at him. "When somebody stops me."

I'm expecting another one of his smooth little putdowns, but what I get is a hand on my collar, and all of a sudden he's pulling me away from the wall, dragging me down the platform and around the corner, and by the time he's bundled me through the door and into the toilets I've got a grin on my face a mile wide.

"This is a high-class joint you've brought me to." I lean back against the wall of the cubicle, watching with a smirk on my face while he locks the door behind us. I said I needed stopping, and I'm not going to let up. I'll keep needling him all night if I have to. "D'you treat all your boys this w–"

That's as far as he lets me go. Miller turns around, grabs hold of my collar, and then for the second time in as many months I've got that knife at my throat before I even saw him pull it.

"I can't give you everything you deserve here and now," he says, and the tip of the blade scrapes against my throat, tracing a gentle little line just under my chin. "But I can give you a taste of what you've got coming."

He brings his other hand up to my bad arm, circles his fingers around my bicep, and presses. Miller knows exactly where the wound is, exactly how hard to press, exactly how to get me hissing in pain again, without that knife of his even breaking my skin. His smile seems to sharpen as he watches me wincing and gritting my teeth, as he feels me getting harder and hotter for it every time his grip tightens, and when I push my hips forward to grind against him, he laughs softly and shakes his head.

"You depraved little punk," he says, relaxing his grip a little. "You'd lap up every ounce of pain I gave you and beg for more, wouldn't you?"

"Sure," I say, and just to underline my point, I push my arm forward against him hard, wringing another wave of pain out of the muscle and giving him my best smirk as it pulses through me. "I can take anything _you've_ got to give me, Miller. I can take it all and then some."

He lets go of my arm, and brings the knife away from my throat, and I'm just about to complain about that, when I realise where the blade's pointing now.

"Down," Miller says, smiling as he gives the order, and he gestures at the floor with the tip of his knife. "On your knees."

"Oh, so you _do_ know how to enjoy yourself." I grin and drop to my knees. "I was beginning to wonder if you even knew what to do with a boy." And we both know that's not true, but he takes my cue and runs with it, just like I was hoping.

"I know exactly what to do with a piece of trash like you," he says, and his voice is so soft and smooth, it's like being strangled with a velvet rope. He puts the knife back in his pocket, and looks down at me like I'm just a bit of litter at his feet. "I know your type."

"Oh yeah?" I say, wanting it to sound like a challenge, but the way he talks to me is already getting me twice as hot and bothered as the treatment he gave my arm, and the words come out in a big breathy rush, taut and excited and desperate. He laughs at me, soft and scornful, and even the sound of his laughter gets me harder and hungrier for it.

"You're nothing but a cheap little whore," he says, grabbing hold of my hair and yanking my head back. "All you care about is getting your fill of money and men, and you can never get enough of either, can you?"

"No," I say, shrugging and smirking up at him. "But I keep on trying."

"Well?" Miller says, bringing that tight hand down from my hair to my chin, just like the boss would, only so much lighter and smoother. "What are you waiting for? Get to work."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I unbutton his trousers as quick as I can, and when I curl my hand around the shaft of his cock, I'm expecting him to give one of those soft little groans, the kind I heard him do that night in the house by the lake, but it's me who can't keep quiet. It's me who can't stop making hungry, eager little noises as I suck his cock. It's me who's desperate for it, me who can't get enough, me who's—what did he call me?— _depraved_.

"This is exactly where a whore like you belongs." he says, stroking a hand over my hair lightly for a second. Then right on cue he grabs a handful of it and pulls hard, vicious enough to make me yelp against his skin. "On your knees, on the floor, with a mouth full of cock. It really doesn't get any better than this for a piece of trash like you, does it?"

So he does know all about me. He knows exactly what I like, every bit of it. He knows just how to press my buttons, and I'm so hard already just from the taste of his cock and the sting of those insults that I can't resist pawing at myself. I slide my hand down and start unbuttoning my fly, bracing myself for another yank of that hand in my hair, but Miller just laughs.

"You can't help yourself, can you, you filthy little punk? Go ahead, then." And _now_ he yanks on my hair again, harder than ever, hard enough to get my eyes watering. "But don't you dare finish before I do."

I want to tell him there's no chance of that, because I'm going to finish him off fast enough he'll think he's a teenager again, but with my mouth full like this, all I can do is make a scornful little noise in the back of my throat and keep right on working my hand over my cock. I keep my pace nice and steady, and while I'm stroking myself with one hand, I give Miller the five-star treatment with the other, vigorous enough to make my bad arm throb and burn. I slide my fingers over every bit of his cock that isn't in my mouth, so he hasn't got an inch of skin uncovered. I want to reach every bit of him, I want him to feel me all over, surrounding every inch of his cock, as tight and wet and hot as if it was my ass he was buried in. I want to drown him in the feeling of it, and I want to hear that golden voice turning ragged and harsh while he comes. I want this more than I've wanted anything for weeks, and I'm so wrapped up in the idea that when I hear a sound in the distance, the sound of a train being announced outside, it takes me a minute to realise that it's the one we should be on.

"That's ours," I say, pulling back just enough to talk. "We're going to miss it."

"Yes, we are." Miller nods, and gives me one of those smooth little smiles.

I match it with a smirk. "He's not going to be happy about that."

That smile just gets brighter. "No, he's not."

Then Miller pushes me back down, with one hand in my hair and one on the back of my neck, tight enough that those manicured fingernails feel like sharp little knives against my skin. He holds me still and fucks my mouth, and now there's no talking, no orders, no insults, nothing except the grip of his hands and the scent of his skin and the taste of his cock against my tongue. He uses me like I'm just a toy, like I'm just a bit of entertainment he's bought for the night, like I'm nothing to him but a mouth to fuck and a throat to come in. He uses me just like the boss would, like I'll bet he's been used himself a hundred times, ruthless and vicious and cold.

When he starts to come, those hands in my hair tighten up like he's trying to rip it right out, and now, _now_ I finally get to hear what he sounds like when he goes over the edge. The groan he gives is quiet and restrained and so soft I can barely hear it, but it's enough, it's more than enough, and I could listen to it all night. I push down as far as I can, until the whole of his cock is buried in my mouth, until I can feel that soft gold hair and smooth pinstripe brushing my face, and I swallow every spray of come he gives me, fast enough I barely taste it. I can't take my time, I can't string it out like he would. I've waited too long, and now it's all I can do not to let myself come the minute he finishes. It's all I can do to keep treading water, and when Miller pulls out and runs the tip of his thumb over my lips, just like I saw the boss do to him all those weeks ago, that all but finishes me off then and there.

"Don't keep me waiting," he says, holding my chin in his hand as he watches. It's the watching that's the worst. The cool edge in his voice works on me, alright, and the way his grip tightens up just a little bit as he holds my head in place, that doesn't pass me by either. But the thing that really gets me is his eyes. He watches me while I take care of myself, but it's not my hand he's watching, it's my face, it's every twitch and breath and bitten lip, it's my eyes and the need that must be blazing in them, it's all of that and it's too much, I can't hold off even though I want to, just to see what it'd earn me. I can't hold off, not for a second, and now I'm gritting my teeth and coming all over my hands, all over the tiles underneath me, and all the while I've got Miller's eyes locked on mine, piercing me right through, watching every second of it until I'm spent and leaning forward against him like a limp little ragdoll.

"Up," he says, only I don't get any choice about it. He pulls me up by the hair, and I'm bracing myself for a slap, but it doesn't come. He just pulls me close, and puts those golden lips on mine. I might be done already, but the way he kisses me, the way his tongue strokes against mine like he can't get enough of the taste of himself, the way he holds the back of my neck like he's thinking I might try to bolt, that's enough to make me shiver.

"Now," Miller says, when he finally lets me come up for air, "you'd better go and ring Uncle Jack, let him know that we missed the train."

"Sure," I say, giving him a grin that feels like sunlight on my lips. "But whose fault do I say it was? Me or you?"

Miller laughs, soft and warm and rich like honey. "Both of us, of course."


End file.
